AN  AMERICAN  SINGER  IN  PARIS 


"SHE  SAW  AND  KNEW  THAT  SHE JULIA  PEMBROKE HAD  DEVELOPED   INTO 

A    FORM    OF    STRIKING    BEAUTY:" 


AN 

AMERICAN  SINGER 
IN  PARIS 

A  NOVEL 


BY 
MRS.  HANSON  WORKMAN 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 

GLEN  TRACY 


CINCINNATI 

THE  TRIBUNE  PRINTING  CO. 
1908. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1908, 

BY  FLORENCE  WORKMAN, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 
REGISTERED  AT  STATIONERS'  HALL,  LONDON,  ENGLAND. 


Set  up  »nd  electrotyped.      Pilbli»hed  October.  1908. 


THE   TBIBUNE  PRINTING  COMPANT, 
CINCINNATI,    OHIO,    TT.    8.    A. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


'SHE  SAW  AND  KNEW  THAT  SHE — JULIA  PEMBROKE — HAD 

DEVELOPED  INTO  A  FORM  OF  STRIKING  BEAUTY."         Frontispiece 

Facing  Page 

'  'FROM  THAT  MOMENT  WHEN  i  WAS  PERMITTED  AN  HONOR- 
ABLE INTRODUCTION  TO  YOU — TO  YOU — THE  ONLY  WOMAN 
I  HAVE  EVER  LOVED:'  ".....  106 

"MON  DIEU!      JULIA   is   DEAD!'"  274 


2138903 


TO 

THE  GREAT  SINGERS  OF  THE  WORLD. 

WHOSE    CHARACTERS    AND    VOICES 

HAVE  ENNOBLED  LIFE  AND  ILLUMINATED  HISTORY, 

THIS  BOOK  IS  RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED. 


I  asked  the  Sun. 
"Canst  tell  me  what  love  is? 
He  answered  only  by  a  smile 
Of  golden  light. 

I  prayed  the  flowers. 
"Ok  tell  me,  what  is  love?' 
Only  a  fragrant  sigh  was  waited 
Thro    the  night. 

"Is  love  the  soul  s  true  life, 
Or  is  it  but  the  sport 
Of  idle  summer  hours?'  I  asked 
Of  Heaven  above. 

In  answer,  God  sent  thee. 
Sweet  heart,  to  me! 
And  I  no  longer  question, 
love?" 

— The  Galaxy. 


An  American  Singer  in  Paris. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"You  sing  Lucia  very  well,  and  should  you  go  out 
from  my  school  now,  you  would  be  the  equal  of  any  of 
the  great  artists  of  the  day.  But,  my  pupil,  if  you  will 
continue  to  study  with  me  one  year  longer,  and  study  as 
earnestly  and  as  successfully  as  you  have  during  the  years 
since  Madame  Cinati  placed  you  under  my  guidance,  I 

promise  you  that  I  shall — no,  that  I  will present  you 

to  the  music-loving  people,  the  greatest  singer  the  world 
has  ever  had." 

He  paused,  and,  looking  at  the  open  score  of  "Lucia" 
upon  the  piano  before  him,  awaited  her  reply. 

Julia,  stepping  down  from  the  rostrum,  came  close 
to  the  master's  side.  He  did  not  turn  toward  her,  but 
continued  to  look  at  the  music,  while  his  ringers  wandered 
in  silence  over  the  keys. 

Julia,  whose  face  during  the  singing  of  Lucia  had 
given  evidence  of  rapturous  delight  at  making  her  debut 
the  following  month,  hesitated  to  make  answer,  for  she 
felt  unable  to  hide  the  tremor  of  disappointment  which 
she  was  certain  her  voice  must  betray  were  she  to  at- 
tempt a  reply  at  once. 

Finally,  having  overcome  the  bitter  emotion  which  the 
master's  words  had  precipitated  upon  her,  she  said, 
calmly:  "I  shall  study  another  year,  since  you  desire  it 
and  think  it  best  that  I  should  do  so.  I  trust  your  judg- 
ment. I  trust  implicitly  your  devotion  to  the  art  of  song." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Pembroke.  By  your  assent  I  shall 
become  the  teacher  of  the  world's  greatest  singer." 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Then  rising  from  his  seat  at  the  piano,  he  bowed 
profoundly  to  Julia,  at  the  same  time  saying:  "Thus  the 
world  will  greet  you.  This  I  feel ;  this  I  know." 

"My  good  teacher,"  said  Julia,  "I  shall  endeavor,  by 
every  means  within  my  power,  to  make  you  realize  your 
fond  anticipation."  « 

The  master,  grasping  her  by  the  hand,  shook  it  heart- 
ily, saying:  "Thank  you,  thank  you,  thrice  I  thank  you." 
Then  seating  himself,  he  said:  "Let  us  continue  the  les- 
son— the  cadenza,  Julia,"  and  he  struck,  as  a  preliminary, 
the  chord  which  ends  the  aria. 

Soft,  but  surely,  came  the  sad,  forsaken  melody 
which  speaks  so  truly  of  the  unhappy  state  of  the  despair- 
ing Lucia.  Though  the  short  phrases,  at  the  beginning, 
sighed  gently,  each  note  by  Julia's  now  perfectly  placed 
and  beautifully  developed  voice  was  clear,  vibrant,  pene- 
trating and  strong. 

As  most  singers  do,  in  the  execution  of  florid  pas- 
sages, Julia  had  gradually  increased  the  tempo,  until,  as 
she  bounded  from  trills  to  grupettos,  now  repeatedly  up 
and  down  the  scales,  in  runs,  triplets,  and  in  arpeggios, 
poising  at  the  heights  of  these  roulades,  to  execute  the 
successive  staccatos,  on  and  on,  with  reckless  brilliancy, 
over  all  the  time-honored  ornaments  known  to  the  lyric 
art,  the  marvelous  flexibility  of  the  fresh,  young  voice 
was  bewildering,  captivating  and  almost  bewitching,  well 
displaying  the  years  of  diligent  practice  which  she  had 
pursued. 

And  when  the  prolonged  trill,  delicate  at  first,  but 
quickly  increasing  in  a  superb  crescendo  to  the  zenith  of 
her  power,  burst  forth,  the  effect  was  crowning. 

Every  tone  throughout  this  race  of  note  participants 
was  exquisitely  true  and  polished;  every  tone  was  as 
limpid  as  a  raindrop,  and,  like  it,  had  gathered  from  its 
sun — the  human  soul — that  brilliancy  which  makes  a 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

raindrop  a  lighted  crystal,  and  makes  each  note  as  lovely 
as  a  flawless  moonlit  gem,  through  whose  effulgent  light 
a  soul  is  seen. 

The  manner  in  which  she  mounted  to  the  dizzying 
heights  of  this  difficult  cadenza,  taking  the  sustained  F 
in  alt  with  such  ease,  accuracy  of  intonation  and  golden 
purity  of  tone,  would  readily  confirm  the  minds  of  each 
and  all  auditors  that  such  possibilities  are  attainable  by 
the  born  singer  only ;  and,  further,  that  the  possessor  of 
such  combined  vocal  gifts  is  produced  only  once  in  a 
century. 

She  sang  on  and  on — sang  as  only  one  can  sing  when 
faith  is  the  guiding  star;  for  Julia  had  that  high  faith 
which  fails  not  by  the  way — faith  in  her  teacher,  faith 
in  herself,  but,  most  of  all,  faith  in  her  mission. 

The  mission  of  each  life  on  earth  is  well  nigh  impos- 
sible to  discern,  or  divine,  but  such  is  not  the  case  with 
the  general  vocations  of  men  and  women  in  society,  for 
each  has  a  clear,  defined,  general  purpose  in  life.  The 
function  of  the  soldier,  the  statesman,  the  lawyer,  is  to 
restrain  the  wrong ;  the  work  of  the  educator,  the  scholar, 
the  writer,  the  clergy,  the  editor,  is  to  expand  the  good; 
while  the  high  purpose  of  the  poet,  the  artist  and  the 
singer  is  to  beautify  the  good. 

Julia  entered  upon  and  pursued  those  long  years  of 
arduous  study  with  firm  resolve  to  attain  the  high  pur- 
pose set  by  the  ages  of  men  for  the  divine  art  of  song. 

As  Julia  left  the  maestro's  house,  on  the  Pare  de  Mon- 
ceau,  and  walked  quickly  down  the  Rue  Rembrandt,  the 
evening  shadows  were  seen  creeping  into  the  most 
secluded  corners  of  the  streets  and  boulevards. 

She  could  not  help  suffering  a  decided  change  of 
spirit,  for  on  entering  a  short  time  before  she  had  been 
swayed  by  a  buoyant  enthusiasm,  so  strong  had  been  the 

3 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

emotion  occasioned  by  the  assurance  that  the  years  of 
severe  study  were  about  to  be  crowned  with  a. success- 
ful debut. 

Now  all  was  changed,  and  another  year's  continuous 
study  must  intervene  between  the  present  and  the  cher- 
ished hour  of  debut.  She  reasoned  with  herself  that,  no 
doubt,  the  master  understood,  and  she  would  abide  by 
her  decision;  yet  she  could  not  overcome  the  feeling  of 
depression  which  seemed  to  cover  her  and  to  press  upon 
her  from  all  sides,  and  with  appalling  force. 

Deeply  moved  by  thoughts  of  this  nature,  her  arm 
twitched  nervously,  and  ended  in  a  spasmodic  jerk,  which 
sent  a  piece  of  music  out  of  her  music-roll,  carried  in  that 
hand,  for  it  lay  in  the  center  of  the  rolled-up  score  of 
"Lucia  di  Lammermoor,"  which  she  had  in  her  roll.  It 
fell,  unnoticed  by  her. 

Just  at  this  instant  she  was  passed  by  a  carefully 
dressed  young  man,  going  in  the  opposite  direction.  To 
her  he  passed  not,  for  she  was  too  much  preoccupied. 

"Pardon,  Mademoiselle,"  said  a  voice;  "I  think  this 
piece  of  music  dropped  from  your  music-roll." 

"Ah,  indeed!"  exclaimed  Julia,  without  lifting  her 
eyes  above  the  hand  in  which  he  held  the  music.  "Yes, 
it  is  mine,"  for  she  had  seen  her  name  upon  the  corner 
uppermost.  "Thank  you,  very  much  indeed,  sir."  And 
she  continued  on  her  way. 

Though  she  had  reclaimed  her  music,  without  look- 
ing at  the  stranger,  the  opposite  was  true  of  the  stranger, 
for  he  saw  and  admired  the  fine,  strong  face  of  the  young 
woman  whom  he  had  just  addressed. 


CHAPTER  II. 

On  finding  herself  within  the  privacy  of  her  apart- 
ment, Julia  sat  down,  weary  in  body  and  mind.  She 
tried  to  recover  her  usual  spirit  of  cheerfulness,  but  her 
disappointment  was  bitter,  and  this  emotion,  when  allowed 
to  prey  upon  a  victim,  undoubtedly  entails  suffering  to 
the  limit  of  one's  endurance. 

Julia  understood  this,  and  so  quickly  put  herself  to 
other  affairs  in  an  effort  to  keep  her  mind  in  a  healthy 
channel,  and  for  this  purpose  she  knew  of  no  better  meth- 
od than  that  of  directing  her  attention  to  the  little  affairs 
which  require  careful  supervision. 

One  number  of  her  daily  programme  was  the  studious 
reading  of  some  English  or  American  poet,  and  for  this 
purpose  selections  were  made  from  volumes  of  Shakes- 
peare, Shelley,  Bryant,  Longfellow  and  others,  all  of 
which  were  found  upon  her  library  shelves. 

At  this  moment  the  volume  of  Longfellow  lay  upon 
the  table,  beside  which  Julia  had  seated  herself.  She 
reached  for  the  volume,  then  let  it  drop  idly  in  her  lap. 

"No,"  she  said,  "it  is  better  not  to  read  an  American 
to-day.  I  might  become  homesick."  But  again  she  took 
up  the  book,  which  had  opened  when  it  had  fallen  from 
her  hand.  It  would  seem  that  the  poet  wished  to  help 
her,  for  when  Julia  put  down  her  hand  to  replace  the 
rejected  volume  upon  the  table  from  which,  a  few  min- 
utes earlier,  she  had  taken  it,  her  eyes,  following  the  mo- 
tion of  the  hand,  fell  upon  the  open  page,  whereon  she 
saw  the  title  of  that  nobly  inspiring  poem  of  the  "People's 
Poet" — Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow — that  poem  fitted 
to  all,  not  to  suit  all  alike,  nevertheless  to  suit  all  making 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

the  journey,  on  up  to  the  end  for  which  the  great  First 
Cause  destined  each  life. 

Though  in  years  far  back  in  America  she  had  com- 
mitted the  poem  entire,  she  let  her  eyes  run  through  "The 
Psalm  of  Life"  until  she  came  to  the  lines: 

"On  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle! 
Be  a  hero  in  the  strife! 

"Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  faith; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

Those  heaven-inspired  lines  had  the  desired  effect, 
for  no  sooner  had  the  sentiment  been  telegraphed  within 
than  she  arose,  saying:  "I  must  cast  away  this  spell  of 
gloom."  And  with  a  bright  step  she  soon  stood  before 
her  mirror  to  arrange  any  little  disorder  which  the  re- 
moval of  her  hat  might  have  occasioned. 

It  is  certainly  a  healthy  indication  when  one  is  seen 
looking  into  one's  mirror  for  an  idea  of  the  impression 
one's  person  is  giving  out  upon  the  world ;  and  most  espe- 
cially is  this  a  healthy  sign  if  the  regard  is  given  much 
to  the  appearance  of  the  lines  chiseled  daily  upon  the 
face.  By  carefully  noting  the  facial  lines  one  can  easily 
see  the  ravages  of  impish  thoughts  as  well  as  the  por- 
trayal of  high  and  noble  ideals,  for  the  face  of  each  per- 
son represents  the  exact  character  of  that  particular  indi- 
vidual. 

"Ah,"  thought  Julia,  as  she  caught  sight  of  herself 
in  her  mirror,  "I  must  go  into  my  boudoir  and  arrange 

6 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

my  hair,"  her  customary  beautiful  coiffure  being  sadly 
awry. 

She  seated  herself  before  her  dressing  table,  and 
placed  the  mirror  at  the  proper  angle;  then  as  soon  as 
the  comb  and  pins  were  removed,  she  shook  out  the  wealth 
of  golden  tresses,  which  unseen  hands  of  fairies  might 
have  been  supposed  to  drop  around  her  shoulders.  She 
quickly  gathered  the  rich  threads  in  a  large,  loose  coil, 
low  down  at  the  back  of  her  neck,  and  securely  fastened 
all  with  the  pins ;  the  front  was  parted  and  carried  back, 
a  large,  fluffy  strand  on  either  side,  to  the  coil  at  the 
back  of  the  head,  where  above  the  coil  she  pushed  in  a 
large  amber  comb. 

This  style  of  coiffure  was  very  becoming  to  her  oval 
face,  with  its  large,  earnest  blue  eyes,  above  which  curved 
the  delicately  traced  eyebrows  in  a  graceful  arch  from 
the  nose  to  the  end  of  the  curve  downward.  The  long, 
high  nose  lent  great  strength  of  character  to  the  face; 
for  in  itself  the  face  was  almost  childlike  in  the  tender 
lines  of  the  chin.  The  mouth  was  small,  and,  although  deli- 
cately sensitive  to  all  the  sentiments,  was  yet  possessed 
of  a  womanly  firmness,  and  when  the  neatly  chiseled  lips 
parted  in  a  smile  or  in  speech,  two  rows  of  regular  white 
teeth,  symmetrical  as  a  string  of  graduated  pearls,  were 
seen.  The  face  in  general,  together  with  the  pink  and 
white  complexion,  gave  evidence  of  the  splendid  health 
and  capabilities  of  this  fair  young  woman  of  two-and- 
twenty  summers. 

She  was  not  like  most  young  women  of  that  age,  deli- 
cate and  slight  of  form,  for  during  the  past  six  years 
each  day  had  given  some  added  physical  development, 
such  as  is  required  of  all  who  would  reach  the  heights 
in  the  world  of  song. 

The  chest  was  high — so  high,  so  large,  that  for  one 
of  her  height,  which  was  something  near  five  feet  five 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

inches,  it  gave  the  impression  of  abnormality,  and  it 
tapered  gently  down  to  the  waist  line,  which,  in  compari- 
son, seemed  disproportionately  small,  but  in  reality  was 
not  small. 

But  though  she  had  given  her  hair  the  usual  care,  and 
lingered  longer  than  was  her  wont,  she  found  herself  still 
confronted  with  the  drooping  shoulders,  with  the  limp 
appearance,  with  the  dejected,  haggard,  woe-begone  ex- 
pression of  countenance — all  most  truly  negative  of  her 
enthusiastic  character;  for,  though  not  prim  in  the  mat- 
ter of  dress  and  general  appearance,  she  could  not  be 
classed  with  the  Burne-Jones  style  of  woman,  nor  with 
any  approach  to  it. 

"No,  indeed,"  she  thought,  "I  dare  not  entertain  emo- 
tions which  can  produce  soich  a  shadow  of  my  real  self. 
Truly,  at  this  rapid  decline  I  should  not  know  Julia  Pem- 
broke at  the  end  of  a  week." 

She  arose  from  the  seat  before  her  dressing  table  and 
took  a  general  survey.  Altogether  it  was  a  sad  contrast 
to  the  firm,  erect  and  buoyant  young  woman  whom  she 
had  seen  there  on  taking  her  last  look,  when  leaving  for 
the  lesson  with  Maestro  Novara. 

"I  am  indeed  ungrateful,"  she  thought.  "How  bright, 
how  beautiful,  is  my  present  life  to  the  dark  period  I  spent 
with  my  stepmother !  Perhaps,  though,  she  darkened  my 
life,  because  she  could  not  understand  me,  and  I  am 
certain  that  I  did  not  understand  her." 

It  is  strange,  yet  true,  that  in  the  past  of  each  life 
there  is  some  period  of  darkness — one's  great  life  strug- 
gle, which  is  remembered  only  with  a  shudder.  No  after 
struggle,  be  it  in  the  strife  for  survival  or  against  temp- 
tation, ever  strikes  the  soul  with  the  same  dread  poign- 
ancy. 

The  first  seven  years  of  Julia  Pembroke's  life  had  been 
years  of  peace  and  happiness,  for,  though  motherless,  the 

8 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

maternal  grandmother  had  been  more  than  mother  to  the 
little  one  left  by  the  death  of  her  only  daughter,  Cordelia 
Mertonby.  She  had  welcomed  little  Julia  into  the  old 
home,  over  which  spread  her  influence,  like  a  great  white 
dove,  with  outstretched  wings,  sheltering,  shielding  and 
guarding  the  pathway  and  the  footsteps  of  the  infant. 

It  was  from  this  grandmother  that  Julia  had  inherited 
her  extraordinary  vocal  gift.  Christine  Upsalen,  for  that 
had  been  the  maiden  name  of  the  grandmother,  was  a 
Norwegian,  born  in  Stockholm,  Norway.  She  had 
studied  earnestly  in  Paris  under  the  musical  guidance  of 
Manuel  Garcia. 

After  five  years  of  severest  application,  under  this 
celebrated  maestro,  artistic  judges  pronounced  her  voice 
such  as  to  make  her  a  dangerous  rival  for  the  honors 
which  thus  far  belonged  to  the  "Swedish  Nightingale" 
alone,  since  to  attempt  a  scientific  description  of  the 
voice  of  Christine  Upsalen  would  be,  in  the  words  of  her 
master,  a  repetition  of  the  qualities  ascribed  to  the  voice 
of  Jenny  Lind.  But  on  an  afternoon  when  singing  in 
audition  given  by  Maestro  Garcia,  a  titled  son  of  English 
soil,  who  sat  among  the  listeners,  fell  madly  in  love  with 
the  fair  young  singer.  Afterwards  they  had  married  and 
had  sailed  for  the  States  beyond  the  Atlantic,  and  Cincin- 
nati, Ohio,  had  been  chosen  as  the  place  wherein  to  build 
their  home.  The  mother  of  Julia  had  inherited  the  vocal 
pawers  of  Christine  Upsalen.  But,  marrying  at  the  age 
of  eighteen,  died  sixteen  months  later,  leaving  Julia  a 
babe  some  few  days  old. 

As  the  florist  watches  for  the  first  tender  shoot  of  his 
tulip  putting  forth  for  Easter  day,  so  watched  the  de- 
voted grandmother,  in  joyous  expectancy,  for  the  first 
velvety  tone  which  would  carry  to  her  soul  the  intelli- 
gence that  another  song  spirit  had  come  upon  earth,  to 
sing  itself  out  upon  the  waiting  throng  eager  to  hear  a 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

heavenly  message  borne  aloft  upon  waves  of  glorious 
melody;  for  messages  such  as  those  conveyed  by  the 
great  singers  of  earth  are  inspired,  and  work  only  for  the 
uplifting  of  all  who  receive  them. 

As  soon  as  Julia  was  able  to  go  out  at  will  she  spent 
most  of  her  time  under  the  apple  trees,  and  early  learned 
to  climb  up  among  the  branches,  often  far  out  upon  the 
limbs,  vying  with  the  birds  in  their  carolling,  and  all  the 
while  telling  her  grandmother  that  she  wanted  to  sing 
like  a  bird. 

Here  in  the  apple  trees  she  sang  with  the  birds  every 
spring,  and  often  during  the  rendition  of  one  of  her  bril- 
liant impromptti  cadenzas,  finishing  with  a  prolonged 
trill,  the  birds  would  cease  their  song,  and,  perched  upon 
the  twigs  and  branches  around  her,  would  peer  through 
the  leaves  and  blossoms,  as  if  wondering  what  manner 
of  bird  she  was. 

At  six  years  of  age  she  was  taken  to  hear  Adelina 
Patti,  and  from  then  until  she  was  taken  away  by  her 
father  she  gave  daily  concerts  to  her  grandmother,  sing- 
ing so  nicely  the  arias  as  sung  by  Patti  that  the  devotee  of 
Jenny  Lind  knelt  at  a  new  shrine,  and  Julia  Pembroke 
was  the  goddess  of  that  shrine. 

Another  happy  year  had  flown,  when  Bertram  Pem- 
broke, Julia's  father,  returned  from  the  gold  fields  of 
California,  whither  he  had  gone  after  the  death  of  her 
mother.  He  had  married  again,  married  a  widow  with 
one  child — a  daughter — six  months  Julia's  senior.  Chi- 
cago had  been  chosen  as  the  city  for  his  new  home,  and 
thither  Julia  was  taken  at  once.  The  grandmother,  un- 
able to  bear  the  shock  at  separation  from  the  idol  of  her 
dream,  died  a  month  later  of  a  broken  heart,  for  she 
refused  to  be  comforted,  and  so  the  angels  bore  her  away. 

Mr.  Pembroke,  still  having  interests  in  the  gold  mines 
of  California,  spent  many  months  each  year  in  that 

10 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

state,  and  during  his  absence  Julia's  life  was  a  genuine 
purgatory;  in  truth,  she  was  made  to  "pass  under  the 
rod." 

The  rules  of  training  constituted  a  daily  series  of 
criticisms  of  the  severest  order,  administered  in  a  sarcas- 
tic tone  and  manner  such  as  would  have  crushed  the 
child  heart  of  the  bold  and  daring  "Black  Douglas." 

Years  passed  on,  leaving  nothing  for  Julia  but  a  desert 
of  sad  memories,  which  so  appalled  her  as  at  times  to 
cause  her  to  wonder  if  God  ever  heard  the  prayer  she 
sent  daily  to  His  throne.  Wider  and  deeper  grew  the 
breach  between  herself  and  the  other  members  of  her 
father's  family,  until  she  felt  herself  a  veritable  Cinder- 
ella in  the  family. 

At  the  age  of  fifteen  the  world  would  have  pro- 
nounced her  a  girl  equally  beautiful  for  her  physical,  her 
mental  and  her  moral  endowments ;  but  the  world  knew 
her  not,  for  her  life  was  confined  to  a  daily  routine  of 
household  duties,  which  occupied  the  portion  of  the  day 
not  spent  in  the  schoolroom. 

Many,  many  pictures  painted  from  her  real  life  during 
the  past  nine  years  had  been  hung  on  Memory's  wall,  all 
of  which  were  heavily  draped  in  mourning.  The  scenes 
beneath  those  draperies  she  hoped  ever  to  keep  hidden 
from  mortal  eye.  Not  even  her  father  had  been  permit- 
ted a  glimpse  of  the  struggles  therein  portrayed.  Enough 
to  know  she  had  been  saved  only  by  those  other  pictures 
done  in  blue,  white  and  gold,  and  hung  far  back  behind 
those  grim  monsters,  looming  up  so  terrible  each  time 
she  thought  to  go  behind  them;  where  she  would  lift 
the  filmy  veil  with  which  the  years  had  draped  them,  and 
peep  in  at  the  happy  scenes,  representing  life  with  grand- 
ma. Those  little  pictures  had  soothed  her  to  sleep  on 
many  a  sad  night,  when  life  seemed  a  dreary  waste  spread 
out  before  her. 

II 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

In  providing  all  life's  comforts  and  many  luxuries 
for  his  child,  Bertram  Pembroke  had  failed  to  provide 
her  with  that  one  most  necessary  to  the  proper  growth 
and  development  of  each  and  every  child  in  the  world — 
motherly  love.  No  child  thrives  healthily  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  unloving  or  unsympathetic  criticism. 

When  Julia  was  sixteen  years  of  age  she  found  her- 
self very  suddenly  an  orphan,  for  in  crossing  the  boule- 
vard in  front  of  their  home  her  father  was  struck  by  a 
fast-flying  auto  and  instantly  killed. 

One  morning,  some  three  weeks  after  that  fatal  day, 
she  chanced  to  read  of  the  presence  in  the  city  of  Chicago 
of  a  great  lyric  prima  donna.  A  bright  thought  struck 
her.  She  would  go  at  once  and  seek  admission  to  the 
singer. 

Attired  in  a  neat,  navy  blue  street  suit,  of  perfect  fit 
and  finish,  with  gloves  and  hat  of  same  color,  she  passed 
out  of  the  house,  to  make  for  herself  the  place  in  the 
economy  of  things  which  by  right  of  birth  is  the  priv- 
ilege of  every  intelligent  American. 

On  reaching  the  hotel  where  the  prima  donna  was 
staying,  she  sent  up  her  card.  The  servant  soon  re- 
turned with  orders  to  conduct  Miss  Pembroke  to  the 
prima  donna's  suite  of  rooms. 

As  Julia  entered  the  room  the  prima  donna  arose  from 
her  seat  and  advanced  toward  her,  extending  her  hand 
with  a  very  pleasant  and  agreeable  manner,  at  the  same 
time  greeting  her  in  a  charmingly  sweet,  low,  well-modu- 
lated voice:  "I  am  very  glad  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  you,  Miss  Pembroke.  Be  seated,  please,"  she 
continued,  at  the  same  time  signifying  a  seat  by  a  mo- 
tion of  her  left  hand.  In  an  instant  her  eyes  had  sur- 
veyed the  girlish  figure  of  her  graceful,  young  guest. 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Julia,  who  still  remained  stand- 
ing ;  "I  would  not  intrude  long  upon  your  precious  time.'' 

12 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"But  I  insist,"  said  Madame  Cinati,  evidently  much 
pleased  with  the  charming,  young  stranger. 

Julia,  accepting  the  seat,  still  feeling  it  would  be  best 
in  any  case  to  expedite  matters  as  soon  as  possible,  said: 
"Madame  Cinati,  I  came  to  ask  if  you  will  kindly  hear 
me  sing,  and  then  tell  me  exactly  what  you  think  of  my 
voice." 

"That  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  do,"  replied  Madame 
Cinati,  in  glowing  accents,  "for  I  assure  you  it  would 
give  me  great  pleasure  to  be  able  to  find  you  possessed 
of  a  voice.  Your  face  indicates  that  you  are  a  soprano — 
a  very  high  soprano.  However,  that  is  soon  decided. 
Will  you  sing  some  little  song  for  me?"  she  went  on, 
encouragingly. 

Julia  arose  and  sang  without  accompaniment  the  beau- 
tiful French  Christmas  song,  "Noel,"  a  song  her  father 
used  to  sing,  and  which  she  knew  well.  During  the  sing- 
ing of  "Noel"  the  prima  donna's  delighted  smile  encour- 
aged Julia  to  sing  it  better  than  she  had  ever  sung  it 
before. 

"Now,  then,"  said  the  prima  donna,  rising  and  going 
toward  the  large  grand  piano  across  the  room,  "come  to 
the  piano,  please."  Then,  seating  herself,  she  struck 
middle  C,  requiring  Julia  to  give  a  sustained  tone  on  the 
same.  This  she  continued  to  do  on  every  note  to  high 
C,  two  octaves  above.  After  the  test  on  sustained  tones 
she  tried  Julia  at  sight  reading,  but  Julia  could  not  read 
notes. 

Closing  the  music,  she  said:  "Now,  let  me  test  your 
ear,  for  to  become  a  very  fine  singer  one  must  be  born 
with  a  musical  ear."  Then  she  played  different,  short, 
broken  melodies,  continuing  to  give  each  more  difficult 
than  the  former,  every  one  of  which  Julia  sang  without 
an  error. 

"Where  did  you  learn  to  do  this  kind  of  work  so  per- 

13 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

fectly  ?"  she  asked,  in  evident  amazement  at  the  alert  and 
accurate  ear  of  Julia. 

"I  have  sung  in  this  fashion  to  suit  my  fancy,  that  is 
all.  I  have  never  studied  music  in  any  form." 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  Madame  Cinati.  "This  perfec- 
tion in  natural  singing  is  nothing  short  of  the  marvelous." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Julia,  whose  face  was  now  a  study 
in  lights,  which  would  make  radiant  a  summer  sunset 
at  the  close  of  a  cloudless  June  day. 

Next  she  played  a  trill,  and  asked  Julia  if  she  could 
sing  that.  Julia's  eyes  danced  with  joy,  for  this  had 
been  the  finish  for  all  her  improvised  cadenzas.  She 
took  the  trill  which  the  prima  donna  had  played  for  her, 
and,  carried  away  by  the  inspiration  of  the  moment,  she 
continued  the  execution  of  the  trill  in  splendid  style 
throughout  the  time  of  a  full  breath. 

The  prima  donna,  astonished,  sat  gazing  at  the  smil- 
ing countenance  of  Julia,  who  now  stood  calmly  before 
her,  awaiting  the  verdict  of  one  whose  judgment  would 
have  no  little  weight  upon  her  future  course  of  action. 

At  last  the  prima  donna  spoke.  "Miss  Pembroke, 
your  singing  of  'Noel,'  though  not  a  song  suited  to  your 
voice,  shows  excellent  style.  Your  compass  is  very  un- 
usual. Your  musical  ear  is  perfect  and  your  trill  is 
matchless.  Now,  if  you  are  in  earnest,  you  can  become 
one  of  the  great  singers  of  the  world ;  but,  remember,  my 
young  friend,  it  is  a  long  time  before  you  find  yourself 
a  finished  singer ;  besides,  you  have  many  arduous  duties 
to  perform,  and,  too,  it  will  require  a  great  deal  of 
money,  for  you  must  study  Voice  Placement  and  Voice 
Development;  you  must  study  the  Italian,  French  and 
German  languages ;  you  must  study  Solfeggio ;  also,  a 
thorough  course  in  Style  and  Finish.  At  the  completion 
of  this  course  you  will  be  an  excellent  vocalist — a  lyric 
soprano. 

14 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

"Then,  if  you  wish  to  become  one  of  the  operatic 
stars,  you  must  add  to  the  course  just  mentioned  Dra- 
matic Action,  Stage  Deportment  and  the  learning  of  en- 
tire operas.  This,  you  see,  is  acquired  only  by  severe 
and  continuous  application,  and  at  extravagant  expendi- 
ture of  money. 

"Are  you  willing,  Miss  Pembroke,  to  make  this  abso- 
lutely necessary  sacrifice  of  your  time,  of  your  money, 
your  enjoyments ;  in  a  word,  all  but  the  art  of  song?"  she 
demanded,  inquisitively. 

"I  shall  study  until  I  become  an  operatic  singer," 
answered  Julia,  quietly,  but  decidedly. 

"Are  your  parents  willing  you  should  pursue  this 
course?"  interrogated  Madame  Cinati. 

"My  parents  are  both  dead,  and  I  am  alone  in  Chi- 
cago. I  have  five  hundred  dollars  in  gold,  but  I  shall 
begin  to  study  at  once,  and  before  this  money  is  expended, 
no  doubt,  I  shall  be  competent  to  teach  a  class  of  small 
pupils.  At  any  rate,  I  shall  continue  to  study  and  teach 
as  long  as  necessary." 

Madame  Cinati,  anxious  to  have  so  brilliant  and-  seri- 
ous a  girl  for  her  protegee,  begged  Julia  not  to  be  of- 
fended, but  to  accept  a  plan  which  she  had  to  suggest. 

"I  shall  be  very  happy,  indeed,"  the  prima  donna  be- 
gan, sweetly,  "if  you  will  allow  me  to  place  you  under 
one  of  the  most  renowned  teachers  of  song  in  Europe, 
and  give  me  permission  to  defray  your  entire  expenses 
until  you  have  completed  your  education,  which  will  re- 
quire at  least  five  or  six  years  of  closest  application." 

Seeing  a  look  of  hesitancy  on  Julia's  face,  Madame 
Cinati  continued,  hastily:  "Miss  Pembroke,  do  not 
answer  me  now ;  think  the  matter  over,  then  come  to  me 
to-morrow  and  give  me  your  decision.  If  you  do  not 
follow  my  plan,  I  fear  much  the  "world  may  lose  you. 
By  looking  with  favor  upon  my  plan  I  see  you  making 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

many  triumphal  tours  of  the  world,  singing  all  the  beau- 
tiful roles  allotted  the  lyric  soprano." 

Julia,  who,  since  singing,  had  remained  standing,  ap- 
proached the  prima  donna,  and,  kneeling  in  front  of  her, 
clasped  both  of  Madame  Cinati's  hands  in  hers  and  kissed 
them  repeatedly  in  a  rapture  of  ecstatic  emotion. 

"Madame  Cinati,"  she  began,  "I  thank  you  very,  very 
much,  indeed,  for  your  kindness  in  testing  my  voice,  but 
I  can  not  express  my  gratitude  for  your  magnanimous 
offer  to  assist  me  in  obtaining  a  musical  education.  I 
should  be  glad  to  accept  this  proffered  aid  if  you  will 
kindly  allow  me  to  repay  you  fully." 

"The  prima  donna,  smiling  benignly,  made  answer: 
"Just  as  you  please  about  that,  Miss  Pembroke.  It  is 
enough  satisfaction  for  me  that  I  have  found  a  star.  A 
star  you  will  be.  I  shall  arrange  every  detail  for  you 
before  my  engagements  in  Chicago  terminate.  When 
would  you  like  to  begin  your  studies?" 

"At  once,"  came  Julia's  answer,  in  quick,  decided 
tones ;  "at  least  as  soon  as  it  is  possible  for  me  to  begin," 
she  added,  thoughtfully. 

"I  like  your  spirit,  truly  I  do,"  said  Madame  Cinati, 
energetically.  "You  are  a  girl  of  action,  I  judge." 

One  week  from  that  day  Julia  was  on  board  one  of 
the  big  liners  sailing  out  of  New  York  harbor,  on  its 
voyage  across  the  Atlantic. 

Julia,  in  looking  back  upon  her  life  in  Chicago,  felt 
herself  ungrateful,  indeed;  for  had  she  not  been  most 
fortunate  in  finding  a  woman  of  Madame  Cinati's  gener- 
osity? Had  she  not  attained  the  heights  for  which  her 
soul  longed?  Ah,  yes,  she  had  done  all — all — all,  which 
she  had  dared  even  to  think  of,  and  now  she  was  gloomy 
and  saddened,  because  the  master  had  suggested  her  go- 
ing higher  up  the  ladder  of  fame — higher  than  had  any 
singer  yet  gone. 

16 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

No,  she  would  not  allow  a  shade  of  disappointment 
to  remain;  she  was  here,  and  surrounded  by  all  that 
could  minister  to  the  enhancement  and  embellishment  of 
life  in  artistic  Paris,  and  she  would  be  grateful  for  it, 
and  she  would  be  genuinely  happy  throughout  the  entire 
year.  She  would  live  in  anticipation  of  the  glorious 
debut,  when  the  date  of  her  appearance  should  be  set. 

She  frowned  and  bit  her  lip,  for  the  bitter  in  her  cup 
of  happiness  lifted  itself  from  the  bottom,  where  she  had 
thrust  it  with  the  stroke  of  a  powerful  will,  and  she  shud- 
dered at  its  bitterness. 

She  arose  with  an  elastic  spring  and  went  to  the  piano, 
mentally  saying,  "My  song  will  help  me."  She  opened 
the  score  of  "Lucia"  and  at  the  place  of  the  sextet.  Soon 
she  was  lost  to  all  but  its  music  and  the  meaning  of  the 
words — 

"  'Twas  my  hope  that  death  would  hide  me 

From  a  doom  of  shame  and  anguish, 
But  that  comfort  is  denied  me ; 
In  despair  I  yet  must  languish," 

for  she  had  so  thoroughly  entered  into  the  spirit  of  her 
work  that  she  was  the  original  "Bride  of  Lammermoor," 
and  if  there  existed  a  difference  in  intensity  of  expressed 
grief,  it  was  in  favor  of  Julia;  for  the  master  had  been 
as  proud  of  her  impersonations  of  the  characters  she 
had  assumed  as  he  had  ever  been  of  her  voice. 

She  had  been  singing  but  some  twenty  minutes  when 
a  gentle,  timid  knock  at  the  door  recalled  her  from  the 
oblivion  of  her  surroundings. 

"Ah,  that  must  be  the  concierge,"  she  thought,  as 
she  glanced  at  the  little  clock,  which  had  smiled  a  real 
interest  in  her  progress  since  that  first  day  when,  six 
years  before,  she  had  taken  this  apartment  and  had  placed 

17 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

that  tiny  clock  upon  the  little  stand  beside  the  piano. 
They  had  become  the  best  of  friends,  for  had  not  its 
pretty  white  face,  so  distinctly  marked  with  the  heavy, 
black  Roman  figures,  become  a  living  personality?  And 
had  not  the  neat  little  hands  marked  the  hours  through 
which  she  had  pursued  her  course  of  study? 

"Yes,  it  must  be  the  concierge — perhaps  a  letter  from 
Madame  Cinati."  Julia  had  surmised  aright.  It  was  the 
concierge,  and  she  handed  Julia  a  letter. 

After  closing  the  door,  she  looked  at  the  superscrip- 
tion. That  was  Madame  Cinati's  handwriting,  and  the 
postmark  was  London.  She  broke  the  seal  with  the 
eagerness  of  a  maiden  in  possession  of  her  first  letter  and 
read. 

When  she  had  finished  she  exclaimed:  "Indeed,  I 
shall  be  there.  How  thoughtful  dear  Madame  Cinati  is ! 
I  am  to  hear  Melba  and  Caruso  in  'La  Boheme' " — for 
they  were  to  sing  at  Covent  Garden  on  Saturday  evening. 
"Let  me  see;  I  shall  go  up  to  London  Saturday  morn- 
ing; that  will  give  me  plenty  of  time  to  be  in  readiness 
for  the  evening." 


18 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  dining  room  of  the  Hotel  Cecil,  London,  presented 
an  unusually  gay  and  brilliant  appearance,  for  grouped 
everywhere  throughout  the  magnificent  room  were  many 
parties,  by  whose  conversation  one  could  easily  learn 
that  all  might  be  taken  for  one  great  party,  since  it  was 
evident  that  Melba,  Caruso,  "La  Boheme"  and  Covent 
Garden  formed  the  topic  of  conversation. 

As  one  of  the  groups  forming  a  part  of  the  whole, 
Madame  Cinati,  Lord  and  Lady  Trent  and  Julia  Pem- 
broke formed  not  the  least  interesting  group,  for  though 
many  seated  as  guests  of  the  hotel  had  come  up  from 
Paris  and  other  foreign  centers,  many  were  Londoners. 
As  Lord  and  Lady  Trent  were  of  the  most  exclusive 
aristocracy  of  the  English  capital,  their  presence  was  suf- 
ficient to  create  a  stir  in  the  hearts  of  all  lovers  of  society. 

And,  too,  the  table,  at  which  was  seated  the  great 
prima  donna,  Madame  Cinati — Madame  Cinati  known  to 
many  socially,  to  all  through  her  art — could  not  pass  un- 
noticed ;  consequently  the  happy  .little  group  of  four  was 
a  target  for  many  eyes,  and  formed  the  subject  of  many 
whispered  comments. 

To-night  the  meeting  of  these  couples  as  they  were 
divided — Lord  and  Lady  Trent  as  one,  Madame  Cinati 
and  Julia  Pembroke  as  the  other — was  an  occurrence 
which  had  not  been  expected.  Both  were  going  to  the 
exceptional  performance  of  "La  Boheme"  at  Covent  Gar- 
den. Madame  Cinati  had  known  the  Trents  ever  since 
she  had  made  her  London  debut  at  Covent  Garden,  some 
fifteen  years  before.  She  was  then  about  five-and-twenty, 
a  charming  young  singer,  just  appearing  in  that  vast 

19 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

firmament,  the  operatic  world.  Her  fame  had  come,  as 
it  often  does  to  those  great  artists,  at  once.  And  ever 
since  her  debut  the  Trents  had  been  pleased  to  place  her 
name  among  the  exclusive  ones  who  graced  the  halls  of 
their  manor  or  their  London  house. 

The  Trents  had  just  come  down  to  London  from  their 
country  seat  in  Essex.  They  were  to  go  to  Paris  the 
next  day,  and  that  was  why  they  had  stopped  at  the 
Hotel  Cecil  instead  of  going  to  their  London  house,  which 
had  been  closed  for  the  winter. 

"Indeed,  Madame  Cinati,"  remarked  Lady  Trent, 
whose  face  betrayed  much  anxiety,  "my  mind  is  never 
at  ease.  You  can  not  understand,  my  dear  Madame, 
what  a  commingling  of  joy  and  sorrow  it  is  to  be  the 
mother  of  a  young  soldier,  facing  the  dangers  of  that 
heathen  land." 

"Ah,  indeed."  sympathetically  responded  Madame 
Cinati;  "I  know  it  must  be  a  great  sacrifice  you  loving 
mothers  make,  when  you  send  away  your  dear  boys  to 
do  duty  for  their  country." 

Lady  Trent  looked  down  at  the  truffled  pintado  on 
toast  which  the  waiter  at  that  moment  placed  before  her. 
Then  pathetically  elevating  her  eyebrows,  she  went  on: 
"Yes,  the  sacrifice  is  great,  and  not  an  hour  passes  but 
I  feel  a  foreboding  of  danger.  I  try  to  overcome  this 
weakness,  but  to  no  purpose,  for  the  fear" — 

"Ah,  tut !  tut !"  stoutly  interrupted  Lord  Trent.  "Let 
us  be  joyous  here  in  the  heart  of  our  Merry  Old  Eng- 
land"— and  he  sat  back  to  laugh,  as  if  to  lead  in  the  joy 
he  had  suggested,  as  soon  as  he  should  swallow  the  bit 
of  artichoke  he  had  just  taken. 

"How  clever  of  you,  how  clever  of  you,  Lord  Trent !" 
said  Madame  Cinati,  and  a  low  golden  ripple  escaped 
her  lips.  "I  assure  you  I  wish  to  be  accounted  one  of 
your  followers;  but,"  and  her  face  grew  very  tender 

20 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

as  she  concluded,  addressing  Lady  Trent,  "he  has  not  a 
mother's  heart,  has  he?" 

Lady  Trent  again  lowered  her  gaze,  but  this  time  it 
was  down  upon  the  floor.  The  mention  of  her  sacrifice, 
and  especially  the  mention  of  her  beloved  son,  had  touched 
her  deeply.  At  this  time  Lady  Trent  was  particularly 
sensitive  to  all  that  pertained  to  her  son,  for  on  Monday 
next,  within  some  few  hours,  she  was  to  clasp  to  her 
bosom  her  darling  child,  who  during  the  past  eight  years 
had  been  far  away  in  India,  faithfully  discharging  his 
duty  as  a  lieutenant  in  the  British  army,  and  now  he  had 
been  granted  a  leave  of  absence,  and  Lord  and  Lady 
Trent  would  meet  him  in  Paris,  where  they  were  to  re- 
main for  some  time. 

But  before  Lady  Trent  had  averted  her  eyes  she  had 
seen  the  peculiar  nervousness  betrayed  in  the  eye  of  Julia 
Pembroke,  who  sat  across  the  table  from  her.  As  was 
her  mental  habit,  she  at  once  attributed  this  nervousness 
on  Julia's  part  to  a  sentimental  feeling  for  her  soldier 
boy.  Every  young  woman  of  marriageable  age  and 
every  fond  mamma  were,  in  her  opinion,  interested  in 
the  welfare  of  her  son;  in  fact,  no  one  of  the  feminine 
portion  of  those  exercised  over  the  conditions  of  the  mat- 
rimonial market  were  exempt  from  the  consideration  of 
Lady  Trent ;  but  in  this  she  was  not  unlike  many  another 
fond  mamma,  and  so,  by  right  of  motherhood,  should 
have  a  goodly  portion  of  charity.  A  very  few  marriage 
contracts  would  have  been  acceptable  to  her  when  it 
came  to  the  placement  of  her  son's  signature  thereto. 

Had  Lady  Trent  been  wiser  than  she  thought  herself 
to  be,  she  would  have  known  that  Julia  Pembroke's  ear 
had  been  deaf  to  most  that  she  and  Madame  Cinati  had 
said  of  her  son;  perhaps  had  heard  nothing,  connectedly, 
of  the  dashing  young  English  officer — Lieutenant  Trent. 

"How,  now,  my  little  American  friend !"  jollily  inter- 

21 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

jected  Lord  Trent,  not  allowing  time  for  Lady  Trent 
to  respond  to  Madame  Cinati.  "How,  now!  I  see  you 
can  not  join  with  Merry  England;  you  are  not  able  to 
eat  roast  beef  and  good  salad."  This  he  addressed  to 
Julia,  who  had  refused  the  roast  beef  and  was  now  sit- 
ting back  in  her  chair,  with  the  salad  untouched  before 
her. 

"Then,  Lord  Trent,"  quickly  responded  Julia,  "I  shall 
eat  roast  beef  all  my  life ;  but  you  will  kindly  permit  my 
objecting  to  the  salad." 

"Why  so,  Miss  Pembroke?  Salad — good,  fresh  salad 
—is  half  the  dinner.  And  this  salad  is  excellent."  And 
Lord  Trent  cut  and  cut  and  cut  his  salad,  pouring  on 
oil  and  vinegar  and  vinegar  and  oil,  until  Lady  Trent 
begged  him  to  desist. 

"No  doubt,  Lord  Trent,  you  will  laugh  when  I  tell 
you  that  I  am  very  fond  of  salad — as  fond,  I  judge,  as 
you  are ;  but  I  am,  thus  far,  a  martyr  to  the  art  of  song. 
Acids  are  one  of  the  'don'ts'  of  our  diet." 

"Lord  Trent,"  broke  in  Madame  Cinati,  "in  our  little 
aside  chat  here  Lady  Trent  has  consented  to  grace 
my  box  with  her  presence  on  Monday  next,  when  I  sing 
in  'Les  Huguenots'  at  the  Paris  Opera.  I  may  hope  for 
your  kind  acceptance  of  a  seat  beside  her,  may  I  not?" 

"You  certainly  can,  my  dear  Madame  Cinati.  I  accept 
with  much  pleasure  your  very  gracious  invitation,"  said 
Lord  Trent.  Then,  bowing  to  Madame  Cinati,  he  con- 
tinued- "I  should  travel  many,  many  miles  to  see  and 
hear  the  greatest  of  Queen  Marguerites." 

When  Lord  Trent  had  ceased  speaking,  Madame  Cin- 
ati, delicately  poising  the  dainty  spoon  above  the  orange 
of  which  she  had  been  eating,  smiled  in  her  most  fas- 
cinating manner,  and  said:  "I  fear  me  you  do  me  too 
much  honor." ;  then  glancing  quickly  from  Lord  to  Lady 
Trent,  she  went  on:  "Thank  you,  thank  you,  thank  you 

22 


AX   AMERICAN    SIXGER   IX    PARIS. 

both;  your  acceptance  does  me  proud.  I  shall  sing  my 
best  to  the  occupants  of  my  box — the  Lord  and  Lady 
Trent  and  the  brave  Lieutenant  Trent." 

Madame  Cinati  did  not  include  Julia,  for  the  reason 
that  Julia  could  not  be  a  guest  in  the  opera  box  o£  Mad- 
ame Cinati,  since  during  the  entire  period  of  her  study 
in  Paris  this  box  had  been  at  her  disposal  whenever  she 
chose  to  attend  the  opera;  even  though  often  occupied 
by  guests  of  Madame  Cinati,  a  seat  was  always  reserved 
for  Julia  Pembroke. 

Julia's  eyes  never  once  raised  to  meet  those  of  Lady 
Trent,  but  the  pink  of  her  complexion  deepened  to  a 
bright  rose. 

Lady  Trent  sa\v  the  color  come  and  go,  and  inwardly 
enjoyed  it. 

Had  she  divined  the  real  cause,  she  would  have  found 
it  in  the  behavior  of  the  gentleman  seated  at  the  table 
behind  herself,  and  who  sat  facing  Julia;  and  had  she 
continued  her  observation  she  would  have  seen,  as  every 
student  of  human  nature  would  have  seen,  the  wireless 
messages  passing  from  his  strong,  manly  face,  especially 
from  his  handsome  black  eyes,  so  full  of  manly  fire,  to 
the  beautiful  soft  blue  eyes,  into  which  the  message  had 
gone  without  protest 

Julia,  who  in  all  her  life  had  never  been  guilty  of  an 
indiscretion,  felt  annoyed.  But  with  whom?  Surely 
not  with  the  sender  of.  the  tender  message.  To  think  ill 
of  him  could  not  occur  to  her  as  right,  for  what  had  he 
done?  she  inwardly  asked  herself.  He  was  partaking  of 
the  evening  meal,  in  the  Hotel  Cecil,  just  as  she  was, 
and  had  all  the  rights  and  privileges  to  use  his  eyes  just 
as  well  as  she  had. 

Why,  she  thought,  did  she  feel  his  regard  and  invol- 
untarily return  it  in  the  same  manner  ?  This  was  a  ques- 
tion which  she  was  powerless  to  answer,  for  never  before 

23 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

in  her  life  had  any  pair  of  eyes — and  she  had  encoun- 
tered many  thousands — made  such  havoc  of  her  innate 
decorum — much  less  had  she  ever  before  found  herself 
awakened  to  that  stirring  something  now  kindling  within 
her  soul — that  something  which  caused  an  unwonted  com- 
motion within  her ;  for  two  powerful  emotions  were  con- 
tending for  mastery  of  her  when  the  dinner  ended.  Had 
Julia  been  able  to  penetrate  the  veil  of  mystery  which  at 
all  times  surrounds  all  persons,  she  had  known  that  the 
pair  of  handsome  eyes  which  had  put  her  into  this  flutter 
was  the  same  pair  bent  down  upon  her  when  she  was 
handed  the  lost  music  on  Rue  Murillo;  she  had  known, 
too,  that  the  same  pair  of  eyes  had  rested  upon  her  many 
times  during  the  crossing  of  the  Channel,  on  her  way  from 
Paris  to  London,  earlier  in  the  day. 

But  at  this  moment  she  was  innocent  of  all,  except 
that  she  had  been  subjected  to  an  unusual  force  from 
without,  and  that  she  had  trembled  at  its  power;  so, 
without  turning  her  head  in  the  direction  of  the  Adam 
who  had  entered  her  Eden  of  musical  bliss,  she  left  the 
scene  of  the  strangest  battle  of  her  life,  and  disappeared 
from  view  of  the  stranger,  who  sat  enjoying  a  cup  of 
fragrant  coffee  of  most  delicious  aroma. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

On  the  following  evening  but  one,  in  the  Paris  Opera, 
which,  for  descriptive  beauty,  lacks  an  adjective,  were 
gathered  together  all  the  wealth  and  pomp  and  beauty 
for  which  this  city  stands  preeminent. 

Down  in  the  orchestra  stood  a  young  man,  who  had 
not  yet  seated  himself.  Like  many  others  in  the  orches- 
tra, he  was  standing  in  his  place,  with  his  back  to  the 
stage,  while  his  eyes  went  quietly  and  slowly  around  the 
glittering  horseshoe.  He  was  not  fully  alive  to  the  effect 
of  that  scene  before  him.  While  others  might  look 
through  opera  glasses  for  long  at  the  dazzling  brilliancy 
of  the  occupants  of  the  boxes,  this  particular  stranger 
could  not  be  said  to  have  allowed  his  glasses  to  point  in 
any  direction,  for  they  were  seen  to  move  constantly  from 
left  to  right  each  time  he  raised  them  to  his  eyes.  This 
gentleman,  Hampton  Alverstone,  was  handsome,  and  to 
the  fair  sex  he  would  be  very  handsome,  for  his  black 
eyes  were  large  and  luminous.  The  complexion,  no  doubt, 
was  by  nature  white,  but  it  was  very  evident  that  so- 
journs beneath  torrid  suns  had  made  it  a  reddish  brown ; 
but  that,  together  with  the  short  pointed  beard  and  mus- 
tache of  a  real  French  turn  of  the  ends,  made  for  a 
strikingly  attractive  face,  for  the  nose  was  long  and  high, 
giving  the  appearance  of  much  strength  of  character. 
In  stature  he  was  above  the  average  for  man,  and  every 
fiber  of  his  symmetrical  body  was  firmly  and  strongly 
knit  together.  He  was  straight  and  he  moved  easily  and 
gracefully,  yet  with  a  strong,  manly  bearing.  His  step 
was  firm,  and  carried  with  it  a  ring  of  genuine  self- 
assurance,  without  that  snobbish  obtrusiveness,  the  chief 

25 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

characteristic  of  many  persons  whose  few  or  many  dol- 
lars carry  them  away  from  the  narrowness  of  an  early 
life  into  the  broad  daylight  of  the  world. 

In  the  left  hand  of  Alverstone,  upon  which  was  a 
white  glove,  he  carried  the  other  glove,  while  in  his  right 
hand  he  held  the  glasses  when  not  in  use.  After  many 
surveys  of  the  tiers  his  right  arm  dropped  to  his  side  and 
a  look  of  disappointment  came  into  his  face.  It  was  ob- 
vious that  he  saw  not  the  one  for  whom  he  sought  in  all 
that  glittering  array  of  beautiful  women  and  of  handsome 
men,  displaying  the  dress,  the  manners,  the  customs  of 
many  nations,  gathered  together  to  hear  and  to  see  that 
great  lyric  prima  donna,  Madame  Cinati.  It  was  a  sight 
of  fine  fabrics,  of  costly  gems,  of  flashing  jewels,  of 
beauty,  of  all  that  untold  wealth  could  buy — a  fascinating 
sight,  such  as  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  never  saw,  and  in 
the  vividness  of  his  imagination  never  conceived. 

Again  he  lifted  the  glasses,  but  this  time  he  looked 
in  one  direction  only,  for  he  had  noted  at  the  last  survey 
that  only  one  box  remained  unoccupied.  As  he  now 
brought  this  box  near  he  saw  a  man  in  soldier's  uniform 
enter  the  box  and  sit  down,  with  his  back  turned  toward 
the  stage,  and  he  seemed  to  be  looking  expectantly  toward 
the  entrance  of  the  box,  which  was  open.  Hampton  Alver- 
stone had  known  Madame  Cinati  as  the  great  lyric  so- 
prano at  the  Hotel  Cecil  on  the  Saturday  evening  before, 
and  he  thought  that  the  young  lady  forming  one  of  the 
party  at  the  table  with  Madame  Cinati  would,  no  doubt, 
come  down  to  Paris  to  attend  this  performance.  He  had 
had  little  to  assist  him  in  obtaining  a  clew  to  the  person- 
ality of  the  object  of  his  passionate  love,  but  since  the 
development  of  true  love  between  the  first  pair  of  sigh- 
ing lovers,  true  love  has  never  known  insurmountable 
barriers ;  on  the  contrary,  the  more  difficult  of  possession 
the  more  determined  is  Cupid  that  his  shaft  fails  not  to 

26 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

pierce  and  fasten  forever  the  hearts  at  which  he  aims. 

Alverstone  turned  and  sat  down,  for  the  leader  of  the 
orchestra  had  rapped  for  attention,  and  the  musicians 
ceased  tuning  and  turned  toward  the  director,  in  obedi- 
ence to  the  summons.  This  box,  which  alone  held  inter- 
est for  Alverstone,  was  to  his  left  and  a  little  in  front 
of  his  seat.  It  was  very  easy  for  him  to  divide  his  atten- 
tion between  the  box  and  the  performers  upon  the  stage. 
He  knew  that  the  blue-eyed  young  woman  whom  he  had 
pleased  to  follow  must  have  a  seat  in  that  box,  if  she 
came  at  all ;  for  the  entire  house  with  this  exception  was 
filled  before  he  had  taken  his  seat.  He  told  himself  that 
he  could  afford  to  wait,  if  perchance  he  might  yet  see 
this  young  woman,  but  she  came  not,  and  the  gay  chorus 
was  ended  and  De  Nevers  was  singing.  He  assured  him- 
self that  she  might  come  yet,  and  he  flattered  himself 
that  she  seemed  pleased  with  his  notice  of  her  in  the  Hotel 
Cecil — at  least  he  was  sure  she  had  given  no  sign  of 
annoyance. 

He  had  traveled  far  and  wide,  all  over  the  civilized 
world,  and  in  many  parts  of  the  world  not  civilized.  His 
wealth  was  great,  for  he  was  rated  as  one  of  the  very 
rich  men  of  New  York  City.  It  was  known  that  he  was 
the  owner  of  a  very  comfortable  number  of  millions.  As 
a  companion  he  was  unsurpassed,  for  on  an  ocean  liner 
he  was  sure  to  find  himself  the  central  figure  of  the  most 
interesting  coterie  on  board ;  every  one  was  pleased  with 
Mr.  Alverstone,  and  why  should  they  not  be? 

To  a  lady  whose  society  he  found  agreeable  he  would 
read  aloud  for  hours,  then  in  a  short  time  after  he  was 
in  the  smoking  room  with  some  genial  companions  of 
his  own  sex.  A  party  of  schoolgirls  doing  a  mile,  in 
so  many  turns  of  the  promenade  deck,  found  him  a  gay 
pedestrian,  entering  into  the  constitutional  for  an  hour 
at  a  time,  and  it  was  easily  seen  he  was  very  acceptable 

27 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

to  the  fresh  young  maidens  in  their  simple,  almost  child- 
ish glee. 

From  a  rude  person  he  would  turn  away,  never  for 
a  moment  forgetting  that  the  most  such  persons  merit 
is  a  look  of  reproach,  if  so  much  as  that.  He  could  have 
spoken  of  close  intimacies  with  many  of  the  crowned 
heads  of  many  countries,  and  of  closer  intimacy  with 
many  at  the  head  of  governments  as  powerful,  yet  with 
hot  a  crown  but  that  of  good  citizenship.  He  was 
never  found  wanting  in  each  and  every  virtue,  consistent 
with  the  bearing  of  a  gentleman,  who  is  such  by  nature 
as  well  as  by  culture. 

A  man  of  this  fashion  could  not  but  please  a  woman 
such  as  Julia  Pembroke  was,  for  to  be  such  a  gentleman 
as  Hampton  Alverstone  means,  first  of  all,  to  be  a  manly 
man,  and,  second,  to  be  that  other  man,  the  result  of  all 
that  education  and  culture,  by  extensive  reading  and 
travel,  can  produce;  and  he  was  both  in  the  highest  de- 
gree. 

While  Raoul  was  singing  the  romanza,  "Plus  blanche 
qu'  hermine,"  there  was  a  stir  in  the  box  under  surveil- 
lance. Alverstone  heard  not  more  the  song,  for  his  brain 
was  responsive  only  to  the  picture  before  his  eyes.  The 
young  soldier,  who  had  up  to  this  time  occupied  the  box 
alone,  now  arose,  stepped  to  the  right  with  his  back  still 
turned,  and  saluted  the  stately  dame  who  entered  and 
came  directly  to  a  seat  at  the  front  of  the  box.  Alver- 
stone saw  at  once  that  this  was  the  same  woman  who  had 
formed  one  of  the  party  at  the  table  with  Madame  Cinati 
in  the  Hotel  Cecil,  at  London,  on  the  previous  Saturday 
evening. 

The  house  at  this  time  was  darkened,  and  Alverstone 
strained  to  see  if  the  other  members  of  that  dinner  party 
were  to  follow  the  one  who  was  now  seated.  His  eyes 

28 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

dilated  as  he  looked  with  intensity  to  see  if  she — this 
young  woman — this  other  member  of  the  dinner  party, 
would  follow. 

Coming  close  behind  the  elder  woman  he  saw — what? 
Yes,  yes,  there  she  was;  it  was  no  one  else.  All  had 
turned  out  as  he  had  expected.  The  young  woman  had 
entered,  and,  after  acknowledging  the  salutation  of  the 
young  officer,  came  forward  and  took  a  seat  beside  the 
one  who  had  first  entered,  and  who  was  then  looking 
intently  at  the  singer,  for  the  high  note  of  the  climax  was 
singing.  After  her  came  the  "gentleman  who  had  also 
been  one  of  that  party  in  London.  He  looked  kindly  at 
the  officer,  saluting  him,  and  smiled  his  approval,  and 
then  he  took  his  seat  directly  behind  the  elder  lady,  while 
the  officer  took  the  chair  behind  the  young  lady. 

By  this  grouping  it  was  impossible  that  Alverstone 
should  see  the  face  of  the  officer,  for  his  face  was  hidden 
by  the  position  of  the  elder  lady. 

The  opera  went  on,  Raoul  had  finished,  the  page  was 
singing  "Salut,  beau  cavalier,"  but  Alverstone  heard  noth- 
ing, saw  nothing,  but  the  face  of  the  young  woman  in 
that  one  particular  box. 

Alverstone  judged  from  the  manner  in  which  the 
elder  lady  treated  this  young  officer  that  he  must  be  her 
son,  for  on  the  part  of  the  lady  was  that  tender  affection, 
accompanied  by  that  slow,  gentle,  sure  inclination  of  the 
body — a  loving  mother's  regard,  whether  expressed  or 
understood. 

Perhaps  she  is  the  officer's  sister,  he  went  on  in  his 
thought.  No,  brother  or  any  relation  by  consanguinity 
never  bent  so  tenderly  to  hear  each  word  the  companion 
of  the  gentler  sex  might  wish  to  say. 

Her  radiant  smiles  were  divided  between  the  stage 
and  the  young  officer.  Alverstone  could  not  repress  a 

29 


AN  AMERICAN  SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

feeling  of  bitter  disappointment.  He  now  felt  a  dull  thud 
instead  of  the  strong-,  warm  heart-throb  with  which  he 
had  greeted  the  young  woman's  appearance.  At  last  the 
thought  which  at  first  he  had  entertained,  but  of  which 
he  had  not  allowed  himself  to  continue,  struck  him 
boldly,  and  struck  him  as  true.  He  knew  it  now;  this 
young  officer  was  her  fiance,  or  would  be.  It  was  a 
bitter,  gloomy  thought,  and  for  Alverstone  the  evening 
was  dark. 

The  curtain  dropped;  the  first  act  was  ended.  The 
lights  came  on — all  was  again  brilliant.  Many  through- 
out the  house  got  up  and  went  out,  but  Alverstone  re- 
mained seated  and  motionless,  with  his  eyes  riveted  upon 
the  box,  for  the  old  gentleman  had  left  the  box,  and  the 
young  officer  had  taken  the  seat  made1  vacant  by  him. 

Alverstone's  breath  came  hard  and  quick,  as  if  from 
some  darting  sensations  of  pain  following  each  other  in 
quick  succession. 

Why,  that  was  the  English  officer,  Lieutenant  Regi- 
nald Trent,  whom  he  had  known  so  well  in  India,  and 
the  pleasurable  emotion  passed,  for  a  pang  of  sorrow 
shot  through  his  heart — he  had  loved  a  betrothed  young 
woman — betrothed  to  one  of  his  best  friends.  To  Alver- 
stone it  never  occurred  that  it  might  be  his  right  to  think 
of  gaining  her  affection,  much  less  to  think  of  making 
her  his  wife.  He  sat  helpless  in  the  throes  of  bitter  dis- 
appointment, but  he  had  not  long  to  meditate  upon  his 
condition,  for  Reginald  Trent — it  was  his  friend,  Lieu- 
tenant Trent — left  the  box,  and  Alverstone  immediately 
went  out  in  great  haste,  intending  to  meet  him  in  the 
grand  foyer,  if  possible.  When  he  started  up  the  grand 
staircase  of  the  Opera  he  saw  Lieutenant  Trent  at  the 
top,  where  he  had  stepped  aside  and  was  deferentially 
awaiting  the  passing  of  a  party  of  young  schoolgirls, 
chaperoned  by  three  teachers  of  their  school.  It  was 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

indeed  a  pretty  sight,  and  the  young  English  brave  was 
as  keenly  alive  to  the  pretty  stir  and  flutter  of  the  fresh 
young  beauties  as  he  would  have  been  had  the  scene  been 
one  more  precisely  suited  to  his  martial  nature.  He 
stood  smiling  upon  them,  while  they  passed.  They 
ranged  in  ages  from  fourteen  to  eighteen.  In  the  bevy 
was  the  dainty,  modest,  graceful  and  beautiful  French 
girl,  truly  feminine.  In  the  flash  of  those  living  eyes 
there  lay  a  strength  of  femininity  whose  power  she  knew 
and  would  use  when  her  hour  should  arrive.  In  a  word, 
she  was  transcendantly  perfect  in  those  qualities  which 
are  diametrically  opposed  to  what  is  masculine.  There, 
too,  was  the  young  English  girl,  as  sweet  as  English  airs 
could  make  her.  She  had  come  across  the  Channel  from 
her  own  little,  yet  all-sufficient,  island,  to  learn  of  those 
pretty  graces  which  the  French  people  are  so  well  pre- 
pared to  teach.  Her  straight  high-bearing  carried  with 
it  that  self-reliant  poise  so  characteristic  of  the  fully  de- 
veloped English  woman,  delightfully  reminding  one  of 
the  freshest  of  June  roses,  nodding  hither  and  thither, 
when  blown  about  by  the  warm,  caressing  breezes  of  sum- 
mer ;  and  this  poise  of  character  is  the  greatest  charm  of 
the  English  girl,  as  it  is  in  later  years  the  charm  of  the 
English  woman,  for  the  English  woman  must  be  consid- 
ered a  womanly  woman — no,  put  down  as  the  womanli- 
est  woman  of  womankind. 

Last,  but  most  conspicuous  of  the  school,  was  a 
large  sprinkling  of  the  young  girl  from  beyond  the  At- 
lantic— bright,  sparkling,  talkative,  too  brilliant  in  man- 
ners for  the  simplicity  of  dress  required  as  a  part  of  the 
education  of  young  girls  of  the  refined  class  of  European 
society.  She  carried  with  her  as  an  inseparable  ingredient 
of  her  physical,  mental  and  moral  composition  that  self- 
sufficiency  which  belongs  to  the  American  girl  and  to  the 
American  woman  alike.  Should  there  be  any  degree  of 

81 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

difference  at  all,  the  surplus  goes  with  the  girl,  and  not 
with  the  woman,  for  the  American  girl  leads  in  her  own 
land.  At  the  age  of  twelve  she  begins  to  chafe  under 
the  direction  of  any  force  from  without  herself.  She 
plans  for  her  clothes,  from  the  minutest  detail  on  up  to 
the  most  elaborate  of  costumes — costumes  of  extrava- 
gance, of  conspicuity  for  which  no  European  young  girl 
dare  entertain  even  a  desire. 

In  truth,  the  European  would  as  soon  think  of  mar- 
riage without  the  consent  of  her  guardian  as  she  would 
think  of  arraying  herself  in  showy  costumes,  bedecking 
herself  with  jewels  and  displaying  her  personal  charms  as 
does  the  American  on  every  occasion. 

When  the  young  girl  of  America  steps  out  of  the  pri- 
mary department  of  life,  she  accepts  no  intermediate 
state.  At  once  she  feels  herself  full-fledged  and  ready, 
not  for  a  timid  bird's  flight,  but  for  the  flight  of  that 
large  liberty-loving  bird — the  glorious  eagle,  emblem  of 
that  country  of  which  this  girl  is  an  exponent.  Unlike 
her  sisters  across  the  sea,  the  American  girl  is  a  woman 
in  mind  and  action,  though  a  tender  child  in  years. 

Lieutenant  Trent  stood  quite  still  and  looked  after 
the  vanishing  school,  smiling  his  appreciation  of  their 
feminine  tactics,  and  smiling  an  especial  appreciation  of 
the  security  of  the  English  home  over  which  such 
young  English  girls  would  soon  preside ;  for  a  sol- 
dier looks  upon  every  one  as  a  defender  of  his  own  par- 
ticular country,  the  man  a  direct  defender  and  the  woman 
an  indirect;  consequently  he  is  an  ardent  lover  of  every 
man  and  of  every  woman. 

He  turned  his"  head  abruptly  at  the  sound  of  a  well- 
known  voice  beside  him,  and  grasped  the  outstretched 
hand,  shaking  it  heartily.  "Why,  Alverstone,  what  an  un- 
expected pleasure  you  give  me !  I  thought  you  had  gone 
to  America.  You  are  well,  I  see." 

32 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"Yes,  I  am  very  well,  thank  you.  I  am  on  my  way 
to  America.  I  stop  in  Paris  for  a  short  time  only.  Truly, 
I  am  glad  I  came  here." 

"And  I  am,  too.  We  shall  have  a  fine  time  here,  for 
my  parents  came  down  to  meet  me,  and  we  remain  in 
Paris  for  some  time.  Come,  old  boy,"  he  added,  letting 
fall  his  hand,  in  friendly  fashion,  upon  the  shoulder  of 
Alverstone;  "come,  let  me  introduce  you  to  my  parents. 
I  know  they  will  be  glad  to  meet  one  of  my  tried  and 
trusted  old  friends,  and  I  think  you  will  like  them." 

"Indeed,"  returned  Alverstone,  "I  shall  c'ertainly  like 
the  parents  of  my  good  friend,  Lieutenant  Trent." 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Trent,  and  they  went  on  to- 
gether in  the  direction  of  the  box,  for  Trent  wished  to 
introduce  his  friend  before  the  beginning  of  the  second 
act. 

As  they  neared  the  box  Trent  lowered  his  voice,  and, 
inclining  toward  his  friend,  said  in  a  confidential  tone 
of  voice,  while  Alverstone  felt  his  blood  run  cold,  for 
he  feared  Trent  was  about  to  say  that  he  would  also 
introduce  him  to  his  fiancee, .but  he  only  heard:  "My 
dear  Alverstone,  there  is  in  the  box  a  guest  of  Madame 
Cinati — one  of  your  own  countrywomen — a  protege  of 
Madame  Cinati;  I  find  her  very  interesting,  quite 
intelligent  upon  many  subjects;  quite  the  opposite  of 
many  singers,  and  mother  tells  me  she  has  a  very  fine 
soprano  voice." 

Alverstone,  who  had  played  a  .very  successful  part, 
by  preserving  a  calm  and  politely  interested  expression 
of  face,  said:  "I  shall  feel  very  happy,  indeed,  to  meet 
Lord  and  Lady  Trent,"  and,  laughing  agreeably,  he 
added,  "and  I  am  always  pleased  to  meet  an  American, 
especially  to  meet  an  American  girl  whom  I  shall  find 
in  intimate  association  with  Lady  Trent — your  mother." 

33 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Although  Alverstone  had  no  personal  acquaintance 
with  Lord  or  Lady  Trent,  he  had  known  their  son  inti- 
mately in  India,  and  he  knew  well  the  family  rank  in 
England. 

He  was  congratulating  himself  upon  his  good  for- 
tune in  thus  meeting  his  friend  Trent,  when,  as  if  to 
prove  the  truth  of  the  trite  saying,  "There  is  no  rose 
without  a  thorn,"  he  saw,  talking  with  an  attendant  of 
the  vestiary,  a  woman,  and,  though  the  woman  stood 
with  her  back  turned  toward  the  two  men,  this  was 
sufficient  for  Alverstone.  He  knew  her,  and  turned  his 
face  from  her  to  look  at  Trent,  who,  fortunately,  was 
upon  his  right,  while  she  was  upon  his  left. 

Alverstone  recognized  the  woman  as  an  acquaintance 
in  Calcutta,  India,  and  a  person  of  whom  he  had 
always  felt  a  secret  dread.  Why,  he  could  not  have  ex- 
plained, but  certain  he  was  that  he  felt  most  uncomfort- 
able in  her  presence.  The  last  time  he  had  been  with 
her,  in  Calcutta,  he  was  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  her  that 
he  was  soon  leaving  for  America. 

Without  his  knowledge,  this  same  woman  took  ad- 
vantage of  this  information  and  planned  accordingly. 
She  loved  this  Alverstone  with  a  love  born  of  desperate 
passion,  and  this  passion  for  the  young  American  had 
torn  her  bodily  and  mentally  since  that  evening  when 
her  husband,  Banker  Nitolsk,  the  great  financier,  had 
introduced  him  as  a  friend,  whom  he  trusted  enough  to 
admit  into  the  sacred  precincts  of  his  family  circle,  and 
this  trust  Alverstone  had  never  betrayed. 

A  few  thoughts  flashed  with  lightning  rapidity 
through  the  brain  of  Alverstone. 

Strange  she  had  not  told  him  of  this  intended  visit 
to  Paris.  He  had  told  her  on  the  evening  of  his  depar- 
ture from  Calcutta  that  he  had  planned  to  stop  at  Paris 
on  his  way  home  to  New  York. 

34 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Strange  with  all  this  intelligence  that  she  had  not 
mentioned  the  fact  of  her  visit,  for  she  must  have  left 
India  the  same  time  he  did. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Trent,  as  he  signified  the  en- 
trance to  the  box,  which  was  their  objective  point. 

As  Alverstone  turned  to  the  right  to  enter  the  box, 
he  looked  into  the  face  of  Lieutenant  Trent,  who  was 
still  at  his  right,  and  in  so  doing  he  was  able  to  see,  un- 
perceived,  that  Madame  Nitolsk  had  not  moved  from 
the  spot  where  she  had  been  when  they  had  passed  her. 
He  knew  she  had  seen  and  rcognized  him.  He  hoped, 
however,  that  she  did  not  think  he  had  seen  her. 

The  formalities  of  the  introduction  being  over,  Alver- 
stone accepted  Lady  Trent's  very  kind  invitation  to  spend 
the  remainder  of  the  evening  with  them.  Trent  placed 
two  chairs  for  himself  and  Alverstone  to  the  left  of  Julia, 
yet  behind  her  and  forming  a  quadrant,  so  that  when  she 
turned  to  her  left  she  looked  into  the  face  of  both,  but 
more  easily  into  the  face  of  Hampton  Alverstone. 

When  Alverstone  had  entered  the  box  a  warm  blush 
had  made  itself  felt  upon  the  face  and  throat  of  Julia,  but 
as  she  turned  her  eyes  upon  him  when  he  took  the  chair 
to  which  Lieutenant  Trent  had  invited  him  she  smiled 
as  composedly  as  if  he  were  an  old  friend. 

Though  little  of  interest  was  said  during  the  remain- 
der of  the  evening,  at  least  little  that  might  be  construed 
into  a  happy  denouement  of  Cupid's  intrigues,  he  was 
alert  and  constantly  watching  for  a  favorable  opportunity 
to  use  his  bow  and  arrow,  and  as  he  is  a  very  wary  little 
elf,  with  tactical  skill  in  concentrating  his  forces  upon  the 
eyes,  he  sent  many  a  shaft  to  the  exact  spot,  for  through- 
out the  entire  evening  he  fought  with  the  zeal  and 
tenacity  of  a  Napoleon. 

When  the  aria,  "O  beau  pays  de  la  Touraine,"  was 
finished,  Alverstone  declared  that  he  had  never  heard 

35 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

any  one  sing  so  divinely,  and  little  Cupid  tittered,  for 
he  understood  why  the  singing  was  unusual  to  Alver- 
stone.  Madame  Cinati  always  sang  well,  always  cre- 
ated the  same  furore  she  had  created  tonight.  Her 
name  alone  was  sufficient  to  fill  the  house  at  any  time 
of  the  year,  either  in  season  or  out  of  season. 

In  the  fourth  act,  when  Raoul,  kneeling  to  Valentine, 
sang  in  his  passionately  dramatic  tone,  "Tu  m'  dimes!" 
Julia's  eyes  involuntarily  sought  those  of  her  newly  found 
friend,  but  for  only  a  passing  moment.  She  smiled 
sweetly  and  unconsciously,  and  it  was  her  unconscious- 
ness that  pleased  Alverstone. 

From  this  attention  he  judged  that  this  American 
girl  was  free  to  accept  any  declaration  which  he,  in  the 
course  of  events,  should  wish  to  make  to  her.  He  thought 
she  had  kept  pace  with  him  in  the  regard  with  which 
they  had  been  pleased  to  notice  each  other.  Surely  at 
the  .earliest  opportunity  he  would  make  known  his  love 
by  words — they  had  done  so  by  strokes  of  the  eye. 

She  reminded  him  much  of  his  boyhood  days  and  of 
his  boyhood  surroundings.  Perhaps  that  was  why  she 
appealed  to  him  in  such  a  manner  as  to  arouse  what 
should  have  been  his  boyhood  love,  and  what  in  reality 
was  the  same,  for  in  all  his  eight-and-twenty  years  of 
life  he  had  not  known  love  for  any  woman;  at  least  he 
had  not  met  a  woman  who  had  been  capable  of  inspiring 
this  high,  noble  emotion,  which  dwells  in  the  soul  and 
which  can  destroy  the  body,  the  soul,  or  both. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Alverstone,  do  not,  I  pray  you,  disappoint 
us  on  to-morrow."  This  Lady  Trent  urged  upon  Alver- 
stone with  a  very  cordial  manner.  She  loved  her  son 
so  devotedly  that  every  one  who  in  any  measure  ad- 
ministered to  his  happiness  in  life,  came  in  for  a  warm 
maternal  embrace,  so  to  speak. 

36 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Alverstone  could  now  enjoy  fully  that  bounty  and 
hospitality  lavished  upon  those  within  the  circle  of  her 
acquaintance.  . 

"Thank  you,  Lady  Trent ;  this  is  charming,"  said  Al- 
verstone; "I  shall  surely  avail  of  this  privilege." 

And  while  bowing  to  the  party  within  the  auto,  he  for- 
got not  to  give  his  last  smile  to  Julia,  who  sat  as  quietly 
consistent  as  the  most  conventional  English  aristocracy 
might  exact.  And  she  absorbed  the  warmth  of  his  glance 
and  sweetly  answered  back  in  the  same  silent  language — 
a  smile. 

"Mother,"  said  Lieutenant  Trent,  "I  should  like  to 
walk  home  with  Alverstone." 

Lady  Trent  beamed  upon  her  boy,  saluting  before  her, 
and  replied:  "Though  I  have  not  had  you  for  the  past 
eight  years,  I  am  not  jealous.  Go,  my  son,  and  enjoy 
the  fine  air  this  beautiful  night.  I  like  your  friend;  he 
will  do  you  no  harm." 

Alverstone  and  Trent,  with  hats  raised,  bowed  their 
thanks,  the  good  nights  were  said,  the  door  closed  and 
the  electric  landau  sped  away  from  the  Opera,  off  around 
the  corner,  out  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines,  down  Rue 
Royale,  across  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  up  Champs 
Elysees. 


37 


CHAPTER  V. 

"Pshaw !"  ejaculated  Lieutenant  Trent,  when  in  front 
of  the  Grand-Hotel  des  Capucines,  "I  have  lost  my  opera 
glasses.  They  .are  priceless  for  the  bit  of  daring  con- 
nected with  the  history  of  my  possession  of  them." 

"Let  us  return  and  look  for  them,"  suggested  Alver- 
stone.  When  they  had  reached  the  Opera,  Trent  said: 
"Stay  here,  Alverstone;  I'll  run  up  and  see  if  they  are  in 
the  box.  I  think  I  recall  laying  them  on  that  chair  near 
the  door." 

Then  he  ran  up  the  steps,  and  Alverstone  saw  him 
disappear,  after  ascending  the  grand  staircase  within. 

Alverstone  stood  perfectly  still,  thinking  over  the 
events  of  the  evening,  and  especially  over  the  good  for- 
tune he  had  had  in  meeting  the  young  singer,  whose  ac- 
quaintance he  had  so  earnestly  longed  to  make.  Then  the 
dreaded  vision  of  Madame  Nitolsk  swept  across  his  brain. 
It  was  like  a  sirocco  from  the  desert,  parching  and  blast- 
ing every  vestige  of  living,  growing  vegetation  in  its 
path,  for  under  the  sweep  of  that  dreaded  vision  every 
tender  feeling,  every  knightly  sentiment,  every  emotion  of 
love  subsided,  and,  as  it  were,  became  dead  grass  and 
lifeless  stubble ;  or,  to  change  the  figure,  the  horrid  pres- 
ence was  to  him  a  bitter  precipitant  poisoning  his  then 
cup  of  sweets. 

He  started  at  the  familiar  touch  of  a  dreaded  hand 
laid  upon  his  arm.  "I  make  you  start,  do  I?"  said  the 
sweet,  deep  voice  of  Madame  Nitolsk. 

"Indeed,  you  do  me  that  honor,"  laughed  Alverstone, 
in  affected  surprise. 

"You  did  not  think  to  find  me  here,"  went  on  the 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

same  low  voice,  as  before,  though  perhaps  a  trifle  deeper 
than  that  in  which  had  been  made  the  interrogation. 

"Truly  not/'  responded  Alverstone.  "I  thought  you 
said  when  last  I  saw  you  that  you  intended  remaining 
in  India  another  year,  and  that  from  there  you  would  go 
to  Russia." 

"Ah,  Mr.  Alverstone,  you  seem  to  forget  what  all  ad- 
mirers of  the  clinging  sex  should  know." 

"What  is  that?"  he  asked,  in  real  surprise. 

"That  woman  is  ever  changeful,  and  that  not  for  one 
hour  does  she  know  whither  herself  will  lead  herself." 

This  she  answered  in  a  manner  so  flippant  that  Alver- 
stone's  eyes  rested  upon  her  in  a  set  stare,  for  he  had  not 
before  known  her  in  this  mood. 

The  cunning  eye  of  Madame  Nitolsk  quickly  caught 
the  meaning  of  the  expression  upon  his  face,  and 
she  hastened  to  add,  by  way  of  palliation :  "Perhaps  you 
think  my  character  a  trifle  lighter  than  you  had  yet  seen. 
Well,  my  dear  friend,  I  have  been  a  widow  for  over  a 
year,  and  my  life  during  this  period  of  seclusion  has 
been  too  sombre  for  health.  I  was  forced  to  seek  a 
change,  and  surely  in  this  gay  city  I  ought  to  find  the 
requisite  medicine." 

This  she  said  low  and  hurriedly,  for  she  had  seen — 
though  Alverstone  had  not  seen — that  the  young  officer 
was  returning. 

"I  am  in  fine  luck,"  said  Trent  on  nearing  Alverstone. 
"That  policeman  yonder  picked  up  my  glasses." 

As  Trent  came  down  the  steps  Madame  Nitolsk 
turned  and  moved  slowly  away  and  toward  the  street, 
so  that  Trent  did  not  see  that  she  and  Alverstone  had 
been  together. 

Alverstone,  fearing  lest  he  might  anger  her  by  the 
least  show  of  neglect  on  his  part,  made  mention  to  Trent 
that  she  was  a  friend  of  his  in  India,  and  that  they  had 

39 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

met  here  very  unexpectedly  at  the  moment  when  he  had 
gone  into  the  Opera,  and  he  finished  by  asking:  "Will 
you  meet  her,  Lieutenant?" 

"Yes,  yes,  certainly,"  answered  Trent,  with  emphatic 
eagerness. 

"Madame  Nitolsk,"  said  Alverstone,  for  she  had 
moved  but  a  short  distance  from  them,  "may  I  have  the 
honor  to  introduce  my  friend,  Lieutenant  Trent,  a  British 
officer,  stationed  in  India?" 

Madame  Nitolsk  had  expected  this,  for  she  under- 
stood the  generous  nature  of  Alverstone,  and  had  gone 
very  slowly  as  she  went  away.  On  hearing  the  address, 
she  turned  and  graciously  acknowledged  the  introduction. 

"Indeed,"  said  Lieutenant  Trent,  saluting  respect- 
fully, "I  had  the  honor  of  an  acquaintance  with  the  late 
Monsieur  Nitolsk,  the  financier." 

"Ah,  indeed!  this  is  delightful,"  replied  Madame 
Nitolsk,  and  she  looked  in  the  direction  of  a  carriage 
then  passing  near. 

Trent,  thinking  she  desired  a  carriage,  asked:  "May 
I  get  you  a  carriage  ?" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  answered;  "I  live  just  a  few  steps  from 
here,  on  Rue  Caumartin." 

"We  go  in  that  direction.  May  we  have  the  pleasure 
of  the  walk  with  you?"  asked  Trent. 

"Thank  you,  Lieutenant  Trent;  I  shall  esteem  it  a 
favor.  We  can  chat  as  we  go,"  she  said,  and  they  started 
up  the  Rue  Auber.  "I  am  much  interested  in  your  posi- 
tion in  India,"  she  went  on,  addressing  herself  to  Trent. 
"How  came  you  to  know  my  husband?" 

"It  was  in  a  Sepoy  mutiny,"  replied  Trent.  "I  was 
captured  by  the  enemy,  but  soon  escaped,  and  succeeded 
in  getting  back  to  Delhi,  closely  pursued,  however,  by  a 
howling  band,  closing  in  fast  upon  me.  I  darted  into  a 
bank  and  pleaded  for  protection,  when  a  man  seated  in 

40 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

the  private  office  unlocked  the  door  and  said,  'Come  into 
my  office.'  He  showed  me  a  hidden  vault  in  the  wall, 
which  I  had  just  entered  when  the  terrible  roar  of  my 
pursuers  was  heard,  for  they  had  seen  me  enter  the  bank. 
Banker  Nitolsk,  for  it  was  he  who  saved  my  life,  invited 
them  to  examine  the  room,  but  they  could  not  find  me, 
for  no  sign  of  the  door  leading  into  my  place  of  conceal- 
ment was  at  all  visible.  After  they  had  gone  on  their 
way  I  was  taken  out,  more  dead  than  alive." 

"Ah,  indeed !  that  was  like  my  husband.  He  was  so 
resourceful ;  always  prepared  to  meet  every  emergency." 

And  her  handkerchief  was  called  into  requisition,  for 
the  tears  were  running  down  her  cheeks,  but  she  caught 
them,  thus  displaying  dramatic  grace,  something  that 
counted  for  much  to  her.  After  a  moment's  silence,  she 
went  on:  "Ah,  I  remember;  you  are  the  young  officer 
who  gave  my  husband  the  jeweled  sword,  are  you  not?'7 

This  she  emphasized,  not  only  by  the  energy  of  tone 
and  movement  of  words,  but  also  by  the  impulsive, 
though  gentle,  grasp  of  his  arm,  which  she  patted  caress- 
ingly with  the  other  hand. 

"Yes,  I  gave  him  a  sword  out  of  the  gratitude  I  felt 
toward  him." 

"I  have  the  sword  here  in  Paris  with  me." 

"Indeed !"  said  Trent,  with  strong  emphasis. 

"Yes,  I  have  many  mementos  of  my  husband,  for 
I  wish  our  little  son,  Adino,  to  see  them  every  day  and 
to  knpw  the  value  of  each  to  his  late  papa." 

She  desired  her  son  to  become  a  great  banker  like 
his  father,  for  she  knew  that  a  splendid  man  had  gone 
from  earth  when  her  husband  had  died.  Banker  Nitolsk 
stood  without  a  superior,  and  he  had  few  peers  when 
judged  for  his  abilities  and  boundless  resources  as  a 
financier. 

"I  was  much  grieved  to  hear  of  his  death,"  added 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

Trent.  "At  the  time  I  was  on  duty  in  the  North,  near 
Serinagur." 

This  came  from  the  Lieutenant  slowly  and  solemnly. 
Perhaps,  as  was  natural,  in  fancy  he  was  standing  before 
his  rescuer,  expressing  his  gratitude,  while  the  words  he 
was  speaking  to  the  widow  passed  out  mechanically. 

Madame  Nitolsk,  slipping  one  hand  through  his  arm 
and  dropping  it  gently,  lightly  tapping  his  hand  with  the 
tips  of  her  ringers,  said,  in  an  imploring,  beseeching 
voice:  "You  will  do  me  the  favor  to  bestow  this  kind 
remembrance  of  my  dear  dead  husband  upon  myself  and 
our  little  son,  Adino,  will  you  not?" 

"That  I  shall  certainly  do,  for  to  your  husband's  pres- 
ence of  mind  I  owe  my  life.  I  am  ever  at  your  service, 
Madame  Nitolsk,  whenever,  in  honor,  I  can  serve  you." 

"Thank  you,  Lieutenant  Trent;  I  shall  remember 
this.  Here  is  my  home,"  she  said,  stopping  in  front  of 
a  very  handsome  building.  "I  have  taken  this  for  a 
year." 

Then  she  turned  to  Alverstone,  and  in  her  sweetest 
manner  said:  "My  dear  Mr.  Alverstone,  you  are  gener- 
ous, and  you  can  appreciate  the  situation,  so  do  not  feel, 
I  beg  of  you,  that  Lieutenant  Trent  and  I  intentionally 
avoided  speaking  directly  with  you." 

"Ah,  Madame  Nitolsk,  I  could  not  attribute  even  an 
unkindness  to  my  friend,  Lieutenant  Trent,  and  I  hope 
I  may  hold  Madame  Nitolsk  in  the  same  high  regard," 
politely  replied  Alverstone. 

"Indeed  you  may,"  responded  Madame  Nitolsk. 

Then,  laying  a  hand  on  the  arm  of  each  of  the  young 
men,  she  said,  in  an  indescribably  sweet  voice:  "I  beg 
of  you,  visit  me  early.  Come  informally,  if  you  will,  to- 
gether or  separately ;  you  know  me,  and,  being  connected 
with  my  dead  husband,  who  loved  you  both,  I  really  have 
for  you  a  very  tender  regard." 

42 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Then  she  put  up  her  handkerchief  and  touched  her 
eyes,  as  if  to  catch  unshed  tears  that  might  at  least  be 
supposed  to  lurk  there. 

The  men  promised  all  she  wished,  and,  bowing  be- 
comingly, departed.  At  the  same  time  she  went  in,  for 
her  butler  had  opened  in  response  to  the  ring,  and  had 
stood  ceremoniously  by,  awaiting  her  pleasure,  for  cere- 
mony ruled  her  with  a  tyrannical  hand,  and  she,  in  her 
turn,  as  despotically  governed  her  servants. 

During  the  walk  from  the  Opera  to  her  home,  Al- 
verstone  had  been  pleased  to  find  her  entertained  by 
Trent,  for  he  was  glad  to  be  allowed  quiet,  in  which  to 
think  over  the  fortunate  turn  which  had  led  Trent  and 
himself  to  meet  at  this  time;  for,  had  it  not  been  for 
Trent,  he  had  not  now  known  Miss  Pembroke.  Over  all 
this  delightful  musing  there  hung  a  cloud,  but  he  was 
far  too  happy  for  it  to  cause  him  much  annoyance. 

He  had  cared  nothing  at  all  for  Madame  Nitolsk; 
really,  he  owned  to  himself  that  he  was  not  only  impas- 
sive, but  that,  in  truth,  he  disliked  her. 

In  Calcutta  she  had  annoyed  him  with  her  importuni- 
ties— urging  his  acceptance  of  invitations  to  social  func- 
tions, in  which  she  reigned  a  social  queen;  for  she  was 
the  wife  of  a  very  influential  man,  and  she  knew  how  to 
profit  by  her  position,  which  was  well  supported  by  all 
to  which  wealth  can  minister.  During  the  past  year 
Hampton  Alverstone  had  left  Calcutta  often,  simply  to 
be  away  from  her;  but  he  soon  found  her  at  the  same 
place,  and  always  upon  a  very  genuine  pretext. 

Finally,  in  despair,  he  had  accepted  an  invitation  to 
a  little  social  affair  in  her  palatial  residence,  and  then 
told  her  of  his  intention  to  return  to  New  York.  And 
now,  here  they  were  again,  meeting  almost  immediately 
after  his  arrival,  for  he  had  not  been  in  Paris  one  week. 

43 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"Alverstone,"  said  Trent,  after  they  had  lit  their 
cigarettes  and  started  back  upon  their  way  to  the  Cafe 
de  la  Paix,  "that  woman  is  a  stirring  creature.  What 
eyes !  Why,  I  feel  their  fire  yet !" 

"You  are  not  the  only  person  in  the  world  into  whom 
that  pair  of  eyes  has  sent  its  fire,"  Alverstone,  laughing 
lightly  and  pleasantly,  made  answer. 

They  walked  down  in  silence,  for  both  were  smoking 
and  enjoying  the  delayed  cigarette  far  better  than  it 
were  possible  to  enjoy  conversation,  even  on  woman, 
in  all  her  loveliness.  Soon  they  reached  the  Cafe  de 
la  Paix  and  took  seats  near  the  door.  Alverstone  or- 
dered light  wine,  Lieutenant  Trent  dark. 

"And  so,  my  friend,"  said  Trent,  filling  his  glass  the 
second  time,  "you  have  been  under  fire  of  those  fine 
black  eyes?" 

"No,  indeed,  Lieutenant,"  quickly  and  testily  came 
the  answer.  "So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  the  field  is 
yours.  I  am  seldom  drawn  toward  the  dark-eyed  beauty." 

"Ah!  there,  my  boy,  drink  a  little  of  this  red  Bor- 
deaux, and  then  tell  me  what  you  think.  It  will  work 
wonders.  It  makes  a  man  reveal  secrets,  and  for  the 
purpose  of  looking  on  the  bright  side  of  life  your  white 
wine  is  too  tame." 

Alverstone  laughed,  but  refused  to  take  of  the  red 
Bordeaux,  saying:  "Your  dark  wine  can  not  change  my 
views.  I  am  not  made  that  way." 

"Now,  do  explain  yourself,"  said  Trent ;  "for  my  part, 
I  am  drawn  to  the  eyes  of  all  colors,  but  I  have  a  pref- 
erence for  the  woman  who  looks  at  me  with  a  pair  of 
orbs  of  dark,  luminous  depths.  I  like  to  look  into  them 
and  feel  that  I  can  not  fathom  the  mystery  they  hide,  for 
to  me  they  are  never  readable.  You  look  approval  of 
my  taste.  May  I  presume  that  I  have  made  a  convert? 
Do  you  not  prefer  fair  woman's  smile,  when  lit  by  the 

44 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

radiant  eye  of  dark,  velvety  softness?  Speak,  Alver- 
stone." 

This  he  asked  and  said,  with  his  imagination  decid- 
edly quickened  by  his  glasses  of  dark  wine,  which  he 
also  preferred  for  its  dark,  subtle  force,  to  the  wine  of 
pale  hue,  and  of  more  delicate  imagination. 

"No,  no,  my  friend;  my  preference  remains  un- 
changed ;  I  give  it  to  the  " — 

"There!  there!"  suddenly  ejaculated  Trent,  signifying 
by  a  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  door ;  "see  that  splen- 
did woman  going  yonder  with  that  man  ?  She  is  the  ex- 
act type  of  dark  beauty  I  admire  most,  for  I  have  a  pref- 
erence even  among  them'" 

"Oh,"  said  Alverstone,  after  contenting  himself  with 
looking  at  the  woman,  "she  would  be  likely  to  please 
most  any  one ;  yes,  she  is  fine  looking." 

"You  see,"  said  Trent,  who  had  noticed  a  very  much 
satisfied  elevation  of  Alverstone's  eyebrows,  "your  eyes 
are  filled  only  with  visions  of  the  large  black  eye — the 
Oriental,  so  to  speak.  Now,  this  woman  is  a  pronounced 
type  of  the  woman  from  the  center  of  France — Touraine 
— and  if  your  face  does  not  betray  you,  I  know  she  has 
called  forth  your  admiration.  Am  I  right  or  wrong?" 

"You  are  right.     She  is  a  very  handsome  woman." 

And  this  was  true,  for  she  was  most  fastidiously 
stylish  in  dress,  in  person  and  in  carriage  of  body ;  medi- 
um height,  slight,  quick  of  movement,  and  in  manner  and 
speech  very  vivacious,  almost  to  a  point  of  nervousness. 

The  couple  seated  themselves  not  far  off,  and  Trent 
and  Alverstone  had  a  good  view  of  the  woman,  who  sat 
with  her  face  toward  them. 

At  the  table  a  man  of  dignified  and  studious  demeanor 
was  sitting  when  they  had  entered,  and  he  joined  them 
in  a  lively  chat  as  though  they  were  friends. 

Soon,  from  broken  threads  of  conversation,  it  was 

45 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

seen  that  the  woman  was  the  wife  of  the  dignified  per- 
sonage. 

"That  type  is  quite  different  from  the  type  we  just 
left,"  said  Alverstone. 

"Oh,  yes,  Madame  Nitolsk!"  exclaimed  Trent.  ''In- 
deed, yes ;  but  Madame  Nitolsk  is  of  the  dark  type  I  call 
ravaging  beauties — you  understand,  Alverstone." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  I  do,"  said  Alverstone,  wearily. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  you  do,"  added  Trent;  "and  more, 
I  suspect  my  good  friend,  Hampton  Alverstone,  late  of 
India,  now  of  Grand-Hotel,  Paris,  deeply  in  love  with 
this  dark-eyed  widow." 

"Your  dark  wine  is  growing  dangerous,  I  fear,"  re- 
plied Alverstone,  good-humoredly.  "At  least,"  he  con- 
tinued, "I  know  that  your  imaginations  upon  that  score 
are  entirely  at  fault." 

"Well,  then,  Alverstone,  you  do  not  aver  that  you  are 
wholly  insensible  to  her  charms  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do;  I  experience  not  the  least  spark  of  emo- 
tional influence  from  her." 

This  reply  Alverstone  made  with  asperity  and  with 
not  a  tittle  irritation  perceptible  in  tone  and  manner, 
and  with  a  decidedly  annoyed  toss  of  the  head  on  one 
side. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Trent;  "this  is  great,  I  must  con- 
fess. I  saw  she  was  not  a  little  nettled  at  having  to  speak 
with  me,  to  the  exclusion  of  her  dear  friend,  Mr.  Alver- 
stone, even  though  the  subject  matter  of  the  talk  with 
me  was  the  virtues  of  her  late  husband.  I  thought — I 
thought — well,  I  thought" —  He  paused  and  looked 
steadily  at  Alverstone,  in  a  teasing  manner,  in  hopes  of 
irritating  him  into  some  kind  of  confession  regarding 
the  exact  relations  existing  between  him  and  Madame 
Nitolsk. 

"You  really  thought  what?"  asked  Alverstone. 

46 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

But  Trent  only  smiled  as  before ;  smiled  and  gazed  in 
so  tantalizing  a  manner  that  Alverstone  for  the  moment 
forgot  himself  and  lost  his  head. 

"There  is  nothing  at  all  of  interest  between  us.  It 
is  she  who  has  always  made  advances  to  me,  not  me  to 
her.  I  really  feel  burdened  with  her  notice.  She  is  so 
trying,  if  she  wishes  to  importune  one." 

Alverstone,  having  delivered  himself  thus,  attacked 
his  opponent  with  a  question  pertaining  to  the  blonde  type 
of  woman — "An  Englishman  like  you  should  prefer  the 
fair"— 

"Ha !  ha !  ha !"  again  laughed  Trent.  "I  see  your 
white  wine  has  been  as  effective  to  stir  you  to  visions 
of  loveliness  in  the  fair  as  my  dark  wine  has  stirred  me 
to  a  sense  of  loveliness  in  the  dark  of  womankind.  Now 
this  is  an  argument  for  the  temperance  lecturer — light 
wine  inclines  the  mind  to  the  more  celestial  affairs — pic- 
tures of  loveliness,  with  that  light  in  the  eye  such  as  lim- 
ners always  give  to  the  saints ;  while  the  dark  wine  makes 
man  long  for  the  things  that  pertain  to  things  terrestrial. 
In  other  words,  makes  man  wander  amid  the  dark  beau- 
ties, in  his  earthly  paradise.  Now,  Alverstone,  I  mean 
to  be  steady  for  a  time."  And  he  went  on  gently  and 
confidentially.  "I  saw  that  you  were  much  pleased  with 
Miss  Pembroke  from  the  moment  you  met  her ;  indeed, 
you  acted  like  old  friends,  both  of  you,  and  she  seemed 
equally  pleased  with  you.  Pshaw,  Alverstone,  don't  look 
so  forbidding.  I  know  you  took  an  interest  in  each  other 
just  as  soon  as  you  met.  If  I  did  not  know  better,  I 
should  say  you  were  friends  before  this  evening." 

"You  are  a  good  fellow,  Lieutenant,  to  take  so  much 
kindly  interest  in  me;  but  I  offer  no  objection,  for  I  do 
like  Miss  Pembroke — first,  because  she  is  an  American, 
and,  second,  because  sEe  is  an  American  after  the  high- 
est standard  of  American  cultivation." 

47 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"I  thought  as  much,"  responded  Trent.  "Your  opin- 
ion of  woman,  no  doubt,  has  suffered  a  change — for  the 
better,  however — since  meeting  Miss  Pembroke,  a  few 
hours  ago." 

"No,  I  think  not,  Lieutenant,  for  I  have  always  felt, 
and  still  feel,  that  woman  should  be  a  companion  piece, 
and,  as  I  am  so  constituted  as  to  desire  no  such  acquisi- 
tion, I  am  not  much  influenced  by  woman,  further  than 
the  interest  I  take  in  a  social  way;  in  other  words,  I 
have  never  felt  the  least  inclined  toward  the  position  of 
master  of  a  home,  consequently  I  have  no  use  for  a  mis- 
tress of  a  home." 

"Well,  my  boy,  you  are  in  for  more  than  a  passing 
social  interest  in  the  woman  we  met  to-night,"  rejoined 
Trent,  again  laughing  teasingly.  For,  being  a  tease  by 
nature,  he  had  indulged  so  fully  in  this  unbecoming  qual- 
ity that  he  was  known  among  his  army  friends  as  such, 
when  he  was  not  worse — a  torment. 

"Which  one?"  excitedly  interrogated  Alverstone,  the 
hot  blood  mounting  to  his  face. 

"Which  one!  Oh,  pshaw,  you  know!"  answered 
Trent. 

"Madame  Nitolsk?"  again  demanded  Alverstone, 
sternly. 

He  would  not  trust  his  quick,  bounding  pulse  with 
the  name — Miss  Pembroke. 

"Oh,  no,  not  that  ravaging  charmer.  You  could  nev- 
er love  her,"  and,  lowering  his  voice,  "neither  could  any 
other  man  love  her.  She  is  not  capable  of  inspiring  love — 
she  inspires  only  passion." 

"Thank  you,  Lieutenant — your  hand — on  that  point 
we  fully  agree." 

And  Alverstone  put  his  hand  over  the  table  to  Trent, 
who  grasped  it  firmly. 

Perhaps — who  knows? — these  men  had  never  made 

48 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

this  mutual  confession  without  the  aid  of  the  cup  that 
cheers  and  can  inebriate ;  but  wine  makes  havoc  with  the 
secrets  of  all  those  who  imbibe  at  the  garrulous  fountain. 

While  yet  holding  the  hand  of  Alverstone,  Trent 
said:  "You  fell  in  love  with  Miss  Pembroke  as  soon  as 
you  met  her  in  our  box.  I  do  not  ask  a  confession — but 
you  did." 

Alverstone  withdrew  his  hand,  and,  smiling,  said: 
"You  are  frank,  and  I  like  you  for  it.  Now,  then,  one 
question  more,  and  I  trust,  my  friend,  you  will  show  me 
this  same  frankness  of  spirit  in  dealing  with  it.  Do  you 
not  find  more  than  an  ordinary  passing  interest  in  this 
same  young  woman,  to  whom  you  introduced  me?" 

This  question  he  put  for  the  simple  reason  that  he 
was  anxious  to  know  the  exact  regard  in  which  Trent 
held  Julia  Pembroke.  In  other  words,  he  wished  to  know 
if  the  praise  of  Miss  Pembroke,  as  spoken  by  Lady  Trent 
to  her  son,  had  aroused  within  him  an  especial  interest  in 
the  young  woman. 

Trent  was  a  far-seeing  man  at  times,  and  quickly 
divined  his  friend's  position,  and  as  quickly  answered: 
"I  saw  that  you  saw,  that  you  came  and  that  you  con- 
quered. I  pronounce  it  a  genuine  case  of  'love  at  first 
sight,'  and,  what  is  better  yet,  Alverstone,  I  should  say 
it  is  love  reciprocated.  You  can  smile,  my  friend,"  Trent 
went  on,  hurriedly ;  "I  am  correct  in  this  bit  of  prophecy ; 
but  you  may  not  be  able  to  carry  off  the  prize,  for  that  is 
another  matter ;  she  is  ambitious,  and  an  ambitious  wom- 
an is  not  easily  won,  if  won  at  all,  when  love  would  inter- 
fere with  the  object  of  her  ambitious  desires.  However 
this  results,  I  wish  you  a  long  and  prosperous  life." 

And  raising  his  glass,  he  proposed  to  drink  to  the 
future  happiness  of  Alverstone,  whether  married  or  un- 
married. They  drank  and  then  went  out  of  the  Cafe 
de  la  Paix  in  a  gay  mood,  for  each  had  learned  that 

49 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

which  was  as  he  would  have  ordered  it,  had  it  been  some- 
thing he  might  have  ordered. 

Trent  had  feared  that  Madame  Nitolsk  had  a  reason 
for  the  preference  she  had  shown  for  Alverstone.  Now 
he  had  had  from  the  lips  of  Alverstone,  whom  he  trusted, 
a  positive  denial  of  any  existing  condition  of  affection 
between  himself  and  Madame  Nitolsk.  And  Alverstone 
knew  that  Trent  had  no  matrimonial  designs  upon  Miss 
Pembroke;  so  two  happy  young  men  lit  their  cigarettes 
and  were  soon  mingled  with  the  mass  then  crowding 
along  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  Grand  Hotel,  on  Boule- 
vard des  Capucines. 

They  kept  along  the  boulevard,  now  and  then  saying 
a  word,  but  the  large  Olympia  Music  Hall  just  then  dis- 
missing, the  crowded  boulevard  became  densely  packed 
with  the  throng,  hurrying  along,  each  person  or  party 
in  haste  to  get  to  the  preferred  place  for  the  usual  theater 
supper  or  other  refreshment. 

"Let  us  slip  off  this  boulevard,"  said  Alverstone.  "I 
came  out  with  you  for  a  breath  of  air,  but  this  crowd 
makes  me  feel  dizzy,  and  then  my  head  is  hot." 

"That  should  be  the  condition  of  your  heart  Instead ; 
it  should  be  exceedingly  warm,  after  your  successful  en- 
counter this  evening,"  said  Trent,  jocularly,  and,  taking 
a  firm  grasp  of  the  arm  of  Alverstone,  they  turned  the 
next  corner  and  found  themselves  on  the  Rue  Cambon. 

"Here,  said  Trent,  "take  a  fresh  cigarette,"  and  he 
offered  Alverstone  one  from  his  case. 

They  lit  and  smoked  and  walked  on  in  silence  for  a 
short  time,  evidently  enjoying  the  freedom  of  the  quiet 
street  after  the  hot  air  of  the  crowded  boulevard. 

Just  then  they  were  at  peace  with  the  world,  so  far 
as  their  senses  were  concerned,  for  under  the  influence 
of  the  sparkling  wine  and  the  quieting  cigarette  they  were 
in  love  with  the  world  in  general.  It  would  have  been 

50 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

impossible  to  have  gotten  from  them  a  word  other  than 
that  there  could  be  no  better  place  than  old  mother  earth, 
and  no  happier  persons  than  Lieutenant  Trent  and 
Hampton  Alverstone. 

The  true  effect  of  an  evening's  indulgence  in  drink- 
ing and  in  smoking  is  without  limitations,  and  this  effect 
is  best  told  some  few  or  many  years  after. 

"What's  that?"  cried  Alverstone,  as  a  sound  of  glass, 
like  the  breaking  of  a  window,  fell  upon  the  stillness  of 
the  street. 

"Don't  know,"  said  Trent;  "but  what  is  that?  A  cab 
— yonder?"  And  he  went  out  to  the  edge  of  the  side- 
walk to  see  better.  Alverstone  followed. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  cab,"  and  the  soldier  dashed  ahead,  to 
see  what  was  wrong,  and  Alverstone  came  behind. 

A  man  standing  near  the  cab,  evidently  seeing  the 
approach  of  persons,  betook  himself  in  the  greatest  of 
haste,  and  was  soon  at  a  safe  distance,  even  if  pursued. 

"What's  the  matter  here?"  demanded  Trent,  in  sten- 
torian tones,  as  he  came  up. 

The  cab  door  was  open.  A  man  was  inside,  but  was 
lying  limp  against  the  farther  corner  of  the  cab,  as  if 
he  had  drawn  to  that  side  in  a  retreat  from  his  assailant. 

"Apache!  Apache!"  came  in  bated  breath  from  the 
almost  paralyzed  driver. 

Every  one  who  knows  Paris  knows  the  danger  of  an 
attack  by  the  Apaches.  No  driver  attempts  to  save  his 
patron  from  these  ruffians,  for  the  bands  of  Apaches 
that  infest  the  city  of  Paris  would  remember  him  if  he 
made  the  least  attempt  to  do  so.  It  was  evident  that 
this  Apache  had  struck  at  the  man  with  his  cane,  and  in 
so  doing  had  broken  the  glass,  and,  in  a  struggle  to  ob- 
tain his  little  purse,  which  now  lay  on  the  floor  of  the  cab, 
with  the  coins  scattered  about,  he  had  cut  the  man's 
wrist. 

51 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"Cocher,  drive  to  the  nearest  pharmacy,"  said  Trent. 

At  the  pharmacy  the  man  was  soon  revived,  and  his 
wounds,  which  were  slight,  were  dressed  by  an  attending 
surgeon,  who  was  called ;  then  he  ,was  helped  into  a  cab, 
with  promises  from  Trent  of  a  visit  from  him  on  the 
morrow — rather  some  time  to-day,  as  he  lightly  put  it, 
it  was  then  two  in  the  morning.  "Good-night,  Alver- 
stone,"  he  added;  "I'll  see  you,  too,  later  in  the  day." 

And  he  waved  them  good  night,  as  the  carriage 
turned  to  go  back  toward  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines. 

The  two  men  who  had  come  to  the  rescue  of  the  at- 
tacked man  had  walked  out  Rue  Cambon  for  fresh  air, 
and  they  had  it.  But  they  had  not  free  air,  because 
some  one  had  gone  farther  off  along  a  forbidden  way 
than  had  others,  thus  arriving  at  the  stage  of  degeneracy 
which  produced  the  Apache — these  children  of  darkness, 
though  made  in  the  image  of  God — made  to  bless  God's 
earth,  and  not  to  curse  it,  who,  if  trained  aright,  might 
bring  about  the  prophesied  millennium,  for  characters 
forceful  as  are  those  of  the  uncontrollable  Apaches  of 
Paris  would  throw  the  balance  of  power  with  ennobling 
influences  of  the  civilized  world.  But  only  in  the  nur- 
series of  these  poor  wretched  creatures  is  it  worth  the 
while  to  work.  Beyond  that  fruitful  spot  hope  of  reform 
is  dead. 

Alverstone  assisted  the  wounded  man  into  his  apart- 
ment, then  bade  him  good  night,  with  the  promise  of  a 
visit  soon. 

As  Alverstone  emerged  from  the  building  in  which 
the  wounded  man  had  his  apartment,  he  said:  "To  the 
Grand-Hotel  des  Capucines,  cocher,"  and  reentered  the 
cab. 

Soon  he  was  in  his  rooms  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  with 
nerves  enough  wearied  to  allow  of  some  sleep,  if  not  of 
much  sleep. 

52 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"Good  morning,  mother,"  said  Trent,  accompanying 
the  address  with  his  customary  salute,  for  he  was  very 
respectful  to  his  mother. 

"Good  morning,  my  son ;  you  are  well,  I  see.  I  hope 
you  enjoyed  the  evening  with  your  old  friend,  Mr.  Alver- 
stone." 

"Thank  you,  mother  dear ;  we  had  a  fine  chat  over  our 
glasses  at  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix;  but" — he  looked  down  at 
his  hand,  which  he  moved  slowly  across  the  back  (of  a 
heavily  carved  chair,  stopping  at  the  deep  grooves  and 
pressing  the  end  of  the  forefinger  into  them  and  then 
drawing  it  out  again,  and  moving  it  on  to  the  next — it 
was  the  trick  of  a  small  boy,  but  Trent,  though  seven- 
and-twenty,  did  as  all  men  do  at  critical  moments — he 
acted  simply,  and  simplicity  is  the  acting-theme  of  child- 
hood. 

Lady  Trent  noticed  the  hesitation,  and  paused  in  her 
writing,  but  she  did  not  look  up.  "Well,  what  is  it, 
Reginald?" 

Her  tone  was  half  unconcerned,  as  she  continued 
writing,  but  there  was  an  anxiety  about  the  inflection. 
Trent  did  not  remark  it,  and  again  said:  "Well,  mother, 
I  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  a  friend  from  India  soon 
after  you  left  us,  at  the  Opera." 

"Indeed !  That  was  nice,  and  who  was  the  friend, 
may  I  ask?"  This  Lady  Trent  put  quite  calmly,  and 
without  looking  up  from  the  letter,  which  she  was  fold- 
ing. 

"Yes,  mother,  it  was  a  Madame  Nitolsk,  the  wife  of 
the  financier  Nitolsk,  the  man  of  whom  I  wrote  you — the 
banker — who  saved  my  life  in  that  Sepoy  mutiny." 

53 


AN  AMERICAN  SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

Ah,  thought  Lady  Trent,  perhaps  it  is  good  fortune, 
perhaps  it  is  not ;  but  she  gave  the  thought  no  voice,  for 
she  was  too  wise  to  arm  an  adversary  with  giving  ex- 
pression to  an  indiscreet  remark.  She  only  smiled  and 
said:  "I  am  always  glad,  my  son,  to  know  that  you  are 
among  friends." 

"They  were  among  the  best  of  the  social  world  of 
Calcutta,  mother,  and  I  hope  you  will  extend  to  her  the 
hospitality  you  are  so  capable  of  extending  to  your 
friends." 

"Well,  my  son,  I  shall  see." 

"Mother,  I  should  like  to  have  her  present  on  the  oc- 
casion of  this  evening,  in  our  home  here — your  reception 
in  my  honor." 

"This  evening!"  exclaimed  Lady  Trent,  turning 
around  and  looking  at  her  son  in  great  amazement. 
"Why,  my  son,  it  is  too  late !  It  would  not  be  good  form, 
to  say  the  least — and,  besides,  the  lady  might  be  offended 
at  such  haste  on  my  part." 

"I'll  manage  that,  mother,"  said  Trent,  hurriedly.  He 
wished  to  convince  his  mother,  for  he  knew  how  immuta- 
ble her  final  decision  would  be. 

Lady  Trent  was  a  very  conservative  woman,  as  re- 
garded the  choice  of  friends.  The  Lord  and  Lady  Trent 
had  never  known  a  scandal  in  their  home.  They  were  a 
most  exemplary  family,  and  this,  too,  in  the  midst  of  a 
large  following  of  the  usual  languorous  social  lights 
which  grace  the  halls  of  rich  and  poor,  high  and  low,  re- 
ligious and  irreligious  alike. 

Lieutenant  Trent  was  very  handsome,  as  he  stood 
there  before  his  mother,  with  one  hand  resting  on  the 
basket  of  his  sword,  while  the  other  hung  from  the  wrist 
just  over  one  end  of  the  rather  high-backed  chair.  He 
was  tall,  but  the  broad  shoulders,  together  with  the 

54 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

strong  build  of  the  body,  did  not  make  him  look  his 
height.  His  waist  was  very  long  and  made  him  every 
inch  a  soldier.  His  hands  were  broad  and  well-knit;  the 
fingers,  of  medium  length,  seemed  short,  because  the 
hand  was  wide  where  they  joined  it  at  the  palm.  His 
fingernails  had  a  bizarre  way  of  looking  frank,  as  some 
nails  do,  and  so  did  the  thumb,  which  stood  straight  out 
from  the  well-set  hand. 

Many  women  who  had  loved  him  had  declared,  in 
adoration,  or  maybe  in  flattery,  that  the  turn  of  the 
thumb  had  been  formed  by  the  frequent  use  of  the  heavy 
sword.  But  he  only  laughed  at  their  harmless  laudation, 
and  had  shown  them  his  left  thumb,  which  was  a  Dro- 
mio  of  the  right,  as  should  be,  but  withal,  the  hand  was 
a  noble  hand — a  good  outward  mark  of  a  lieutenant  in 
the  British  army,  who  had  gained  his  rank  by  active 
service. 

The  face  was  somewhat  oval,  though  no  one  would 
have  said  it,  for  it  seemed  nearer  the  square.  His  lower 
jaw  was  thrust  out  a  trifle,  but  it  was  not  a  natural 
set ;  more  likely  the  life  of  the  soldier  had  formed  it,  for 
the  wide  mouth  had  very  narrow  lips,  and  the  lower  lip 
had  a  way  of  protruding  beyond  the  upper,  when  he  was 
thoughtful,  which  was  not  very  often,  for,  like  many  great 
generals,  he  rarely  meditated.  He  acted  on  the  moment. 
The  corners  of  the  mouth  hung  down,  but  this  was  also 
formed,  and  not  natural. 

The  soft  chestnut  hair  was  aristocratic,  from  the  left, 
where  it  parted  and  fell  across  to  the  other  side  of  the 
head,  to  the  round,  neat  turn,  just  behind  the  ear.  It  was 
thick  hair,  though  very  fine,  and  the  way  it  turned  back 
just  at  the  right  temple  gave  a  decision  to  the  high,  prom- 
inent forehead  and  a  keenness  to  the  eyes  which  should 
have  looked  gentle,  for  they  were  cerulean.  They  were 
not  small  eyes,  but  they  appeared  small,  for  the  bone  of 

55 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

the  cheek  was  high,  as  it  nearly  always  is  in  the  faces 
of  great  martial  heroes.  The  eyebrows  were  straight, 
and  marked  no  especial  characteristic. 

The  nose  was  high,  straight  and  very  regular.  The 
skin  was  healthy,  though  it  was  very  brown,  and  just  a 
tinge  of  color  showed  through  the  burned  brown  of  the 
cheek. 

He  had  an  easy  carriage,  though  he  held  himself  very 
erect.  He  looked  like  an  Englishman,  but  he  did  not 
walk  like  one.  This  was  Sir  Reginald  Trent.  There 
were  times  when  he  became  "the  soldier,"  and  then  he 
was  debonair,  careless,  and  there  was  an  elasticity  about 
his  step,  and  his  eyes  had  a  fierce  light  in  them.  The 
jaw  would  thrust  itself  farther  forward,  and  the  spot 
where  the  hair  turned  backward  at  the  right  temple 
would  seem  higher  and  more  prominent. 

He  was  a  noble  lord.  He  was  a  daring  fighter.  He 
was  a  gay  companion.  He  had  a  strong  mind,  but  he  had 
not  such  a  mind  as  to  be  entirely  deaf  to  the  persuasive 
lull  of  a  fair  woman's  voice.  He  was  well  worth  a  moth- 
er's anxiety. 

Lady  Trent  looked  at  him  long  and  earnestly,  but  the 
frank,  fearless  eye  and  the  honest  poise  of  the  body  were 
unaccusing  signs,  and  Lady  Trent's  gaze  became  tender, 
for  she  knew;  it  was  not  an  unpardonable  fault,  it  was 
only  one  of  the  indiscretions  of  youth. 

"My  son,"  said  Lady  Trent,  in  a  voice  filled  with  ten- 
derness, "if  this  were  a  gathering  of  a  cosmopolitan  na- 
ture, it  would  be  all  very  well,  and  I  should  offer  no  ob- 
jections, but  as  it  is  a  very  <select  party  of  very  congenial 
persons,  I  do  not  see  the  way  clear  to  introduce  a 
stranger,  of  whose  character  I  know  nothing,  except  that 
she  was  the  wife  of  a  rich  man  in  India,  and  that  she 
moved  in  social  circles  there.  It  may  seem  severe  to  my 
soldier  boy,  but  he  should  remember  that  there  must  be 

56 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

some  recommendation  of  real  merit  before  the  mother  of 
Lieutenant  Reginald  Trent  can  conscientiously  introduce 
strangers  to  her  friends,  who  will  gather  this  evening  to 
do  honor  by  their  presence,  thus  acknowledging  their 
confidence  in  the  discretionary  powers  of  the  hostess." 

"Yes,  mother,  I  see;  perhaps  I  have  grown  careless 
in  such  matters,  but  I  do  wish  she  might  come." 

His  voice  showed  the  disappointment,  and  for  a  time 
neither  mother  nor  son  tried  to  speak. 

Trent  had  seated  himself  in  an  easy-chair,  and  was 
quiet,  except  for  a  slight  motion  of  his  right  foot,  which 
hung  from  a  footrest,  over  which  he  had  thrown  it. 
His  head  had  dropped  slightly  forward,  and  he  thought- 
fully watched  the  movement  of  his  foot. 

Lady  Trent,  who  was  seemingly  busy  with  the  ar- 
rangement of  the  letters  she  had  just  finished  writing, 
let  her  eyes  find  her  son  and  rest  upon  him  without  his 
knowledge  of  the  same.  She  wished  to  read,  if  possible, 
whether  her  son  was  very  fond  of  this  woman,  on  whom 
he  wished  to  confer  this  favor,  or  if  it  was  simply  out 
of  gratitude. 

Her  heart  smote  her  as  she  read,  for  she  was  certain 
that  gratitude  was  not  the  motive  for  the  act,  and  Lady 
Trent  had  always  cherished  a  desire  that  from  among 
the  fair  daughters  of  English  ancestry  Reginald,  her  boy, 
would  choose  his  bride. 

"How  long  has  she  been  a   widow?"   nonchalantly 
asked  Lady  Trent.     "Perhaps  she  would  not  be  able  to' 
accept  for  this  reason,  if  for  no  other." 

Secretly  she  hoped  it  would  prove  the  necessary  bar- 
rier, for  she  knew  that  her  son  was  over-rash  in  his 
warmth  of  gratitude,  to  say  the  least ;  for  to  Lady  Trent 
there  were  numerous  other  ways  to  show  gratitude  than 
by  doing  what  might  prove  at  least  an  indiscretion,  if  not 
an  offense,  to  the  good  taste  of  her  invited  guests. 

57 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"She  has  been  a  widow  some  fourteen  months,  and 
her  physician  advised  travel  and  change  for  her  health. 

"Did  she  tell  you  this?"  again  asked  Lady  Trent,  in 
the  same  careless  manner. 

"Yes,  she  told  Alverstone  and  me  this  last  evening. 
We  walked  home  with  her  from  the  Opera.  She  lives 
in  a  magnificent  place,  on  Rue  Caumartin." 

Lady  Trent  was  almost  breathless  with  astonishment 
that  her  son  should  ask  her  to  invite  to  an  exclusive 
gathering  of  some  several  hundred  guests  a  woman  to 
whom  he  had  been  introduced  at  the  Opera  door,  and 
then  he  had  been  permitted  by  her  to  accompany  her 
home.  She  only  said: 

"Reginald,  I  really  do  not  see  my  way  clear  to  do 
this.  If  it  were  as  I  said  before,  a  cosmopolitan  affair, 
even  an  official  affair,  I  might  consider  it ;  but  I  can  not 
conscientiously  do  it  on  this  occasion." 

"Very  well,  mother;  but  I  assure  you  that  the  pain 
your  refusal  gives  me  is  great.  Why,  mother,  that 
woman  is  the  widow  of  the  man  who,  a  few  years  ago, 
saved  me  from  death  by  horrible  torture.  Were  it  not 
for  her  late  husband  I  would  not  now  be  here  to  ask  of 
you  this  token  of  gratitude.  I  wish  to  be  a  dutiful  son, 
but  to  the  late  Banker  Nitolsk,  whose  name  this  woman 
bears,  I  owe  my  life,  which  you,  my  dear  mother,  could 
not  at  that  hour  have  saved,  even  with  the  aid  of  all  the 
assembled  exclusiveness  of  this  evening.  But" — 

He  paused  abruptly,  arose  and  paced  rapidly  around 
the  room,  yet  with  no  show  of  anger,  for  he  was  a  gen- 
tleman in  the  presence  of  his  mother — she  could  not  re- 
member a  time  when  her  Reginald  forgot  himself  to  her. 

"Mother,"  he  resumed,  I  "think  Madame  Nitolsk  a 
perfect  lady  in  manners,  and  one  perfectly  acquainted 
with  all  form  required  in  the  most  exclusive  of  social 

58 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

gatherings ;  and,  further,  I  am  sure  she  will  never  cause 
you  regret  that  you  have  invited  her." 

Lady  Trent  knew  her  son  cared  much  for  the  woman, 
who  had  made  his  acquaintance  only  last  evening — no, 
last  midnight,  she  thought,  with  bitterness — and  had  had 
him  within  her  power  for  only  a  short  time,  yet  at  this 
moment  had  him  so  much  within  her  power  that  he  was 
insisting  upon  his  mother  committing  an  offense — per- 
haps an  unpardonable  offense — against  the  hundreds  of 
persons  whom  she  was  to  receive  as  guests  on  that  eve- 
ning. 

She  decided  that  she  would  know  for  herself. 

Turning  to  her  son,  she  said :  "Reginald,  I  trust  you. 
You  know  what  it  means  to  invite  an  unknown  person 
into  our  set.  Now  I  give  you  permission  to  carry  out 
your  desire,  and  I  trust  we  shall  not  be  disappointed  in 
the  woman." 

She  handed  him  an  invitation,  which  he  took,  saying 
that  he  would  see  she  got  it. 

"But  remember,  my  son,"  Lady  Trent  went  on,  "that 
this  Madame  Nitolsk  is  to  enjoy  the  hospitality  of  your 
mother,  and  remember,  too,  my  brave  boy,  that  your 
mother  would  rather  die  than  bid  to  her  home  a  woman 
whose  character  would  not  bear  the  searchlight  of  virtue 
and  of  honor.  I  know  you,  my  darling  child,  but  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  can  trust  your  judgment  in  this  matter." 

"Mother,  I  thank  you,  and  I  feel  sure  you  will  have 
no  cause  for  regrets." 

He  took  the  invitation,,  but  he  did  not  look  at  it.  He 
caught  his  mother's  hand  and  pressed  it  to 'his  lips.  Then 
he  straightened  himself  and  a  smile  lit  up  the  strong-set 
face,  as  his  eyes  met  those  of  his  mother,  for  she  was 
smiling  tenderly  upon  him.  Then  he  turned  and  left  the 
room. 

59 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Lady  Trent  looked  after  her  son,  and  a  feeling  of 
tenderest  pride  mingled  itself  with  compassion.  He 
looked  so  handsome  and  so  brave  in  his  beautiful  uni- 
form, with  the  insignia  of  his  rank — "God  bless  you  and 
keep  you,  my  son." 

She  listened  to  his  footsteps  as  they  grew  fainter  and 
fainter  down  the  long  corridor,  and  the  mother's  ear 
caught  the  small  metallic  click  of  the  sword,  which 
touched  the  mosaic  pavement  every  now  and  then.  The 
smile  had  left  her  face  and  an  anxious  look  was  in  her 
eyes. 

Though  her  son  resembled  her  in  some  features,  no 
one  would  have  judged  their  relation  by  physiognomy 
alone. 

Her  hair  was  a  light  brown,  softly  parted  and  done 
high  on  the  head.  The  complexion  was  clear,  as  it  gen- 
erally is  with  English  women,  and  the  healthy  pink  of  the 
cheek  and  the  crystal  blue  of  the  eye  made  her  appear 
much  younger  than  she  really  was.  The  features  were  of 
a  refined,  classic  type,  and  were  in  perfect  harmony  with 
the  noble  lines  of  the  chin  and  throat.  Her  face  showed 
decision  and  sincerity  of  purpose,  though  kind  and  al- 
ways open  to  reason.  She  was  large,  but  not  stout,  and 
she  carried  herself  with  a  regal  bearing.  She  possessed 
that  noble  beauty  which  can  not  fail  to  make  a  goddess 
of  woman,  especially  if  she  has  passed  the  years  of  forty, 
and  Lady  Trent  was  just  nine-and-forty.  Some  half-hour 
after  Lieutenant  Trent  had  gone  out  from  his  mother's 
sitting  room  she  was  entering  her  electric  landau. 

"Go  directly  to  Revillon,  Rue  de  Rivoli,"  said  Lady 
Trent  to  the  footman,  who  stood  awaiting  her  orders. 

She  was  having  a  large  sealskin  coat  made  there,  and 
remained  at  this  furrier's  long  enough  to  allow  the  fitter 
to  examine  the  fit  of  the  completed  garment,  something 
she  always  did  before  permitting  the  sending  home. 

60 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

On  returning  to  her  automobile  she  gave  orders  for 
her  usual  morning  drive,  which,  when  in  Paris,  she  al- 
ways took  in  the  Bois. 

On  the  return  trip,  while  yet  in  the  Bois,  as  the  auto- 
mobile sped  off  the  Alice  de  la  Reine  Marguerite,  on  the 
beautiful  Route  de  Suresnes,  a  couple  of  riders  came  into 
view. 

The  horses  were  walking  and  evidently  the  riders  were 
thoroughly  enjoying  the  interesting  chat,  in  which  the 
woman  was  displaying  her  abilities  in  that  line,  for  her 
vivacity  of  manner  was  very  apparent  at  even  a  distance. 
Her  companion  was  in  the  attitude  of  an  adoring  listener. 
Quick  as  a  flash  to  Lady  Trent  was  made  known  the  fact 
that  her  son,  Reginald  Trent,  was  enslaved  by  the  woman 
with  whom  at  that  moment  he  rode  and  held  converse. 

The  chauffeur  and  footman,  recognizing  the  son  of 
Lady  Trent,  ran  along  quietly  and  slowly,  expecting  an 
order  to  stop. 

Lieutenant  Trent,  who  had  turned  his  head  at  sound 
of  the  approaching  car,  turned  in  his  saddle  to  signal  the 
chauffeur  to  stop. 

He  dismounted,  and,  saluting  his  mother,  for  whom 
the  footman  was  holding  open  the  door,  said:  "Mother, 
you  will  allow  me  the  honor  to  present  to  you  my  friend, 
Madame  Nitolsk." 

Madame  Nitolsk,  whose  horse  had  remained  standing 
near  by,  now  turned  her  horse's  head  and  came  close. 

Lady  Trent  bowed  kindly  and  gave  no  indication  other 
than  that  she  was  much  pleased  with  the  woman.  But 
in  reality  she  felt  it  her  duty  to  warn  her  son  at  the 
earliest  opportunity  to  avoid  as  much  as  possible  this 
strange  woman — this  woman  who  belonged  not  to  the  or- 
der of  women  found  in  the  home  of  Lady  Trent. 

61 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Lady  Trent  rarely  made  mistakes  in  her  judgments, 
according  to  first  impressions  of  persons  who  were  pre- 
sented for  her  approval. 

Madame  Nitolsk,  though  seated  in  her  beautiful  sad- 
dle, upon  an  extraordinarily  spirited  horse,  made  a  most 
beautiful  picture,  as  with  reins  in  left  hand  and  dainty 
little  riding  whip  in  left,  she  bowed  very  low  to  Lady 
Trent. 

To  the  son  she  was  most  dangerously  fascinating;  to 
the  mother  she  was  a  picture  of  the  most  fascinating 
treachery  that  she  could  remember  to  have  yet  encoun- 
tered. She  felt  no  slight  compunction  of  conscience  at 
the  thought  of  this  woman  mingling  with  her  guests  of 
the  evening — guests,  every  one  of  whom  trusted  in  the 
wholesome  English  woman's  unbiased  judgment  so  fully 
that  to  meet  one  in  her  salons  was  understood  to  meet  a 
morally  good  woman  . 

Lady  Trent  knew  the  position  she  held  in  the  esteem 
of  her  friends,  but  she  had  given  her  son  permission  to 
invite  this  Madame  Nitolsk,  and  she  would  abide  by  that 
decision. 

The  landau  carrying  the  guardian  angel  of  Lieuten- 
ant Trent  passed  out  of  sight. 

The  two  riders  continued  on  their  way. 

"You  do  not  resemble  your  mother/'  remarked  Mad- 
ame Nitolsk." 

"No,  I  am  favored  with  the  face,  form  and  manners 
of  my  maternal  grandfather." 

"You  are  something  like  your  mother,  I  see." 

"How  so?"  he  asked. 

"Ah,  she  is  a  brave  woman,  and  her  son  is  a  daring 
soldier.  I  always  admire  that  brave  nobility  in  woman ; 
but  in  man — ah !" 

The  "ah"  was  said  with  a  bewitching  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  and  a  smile  played  around  her  mouth.  She 

62 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

looked  down,  and  the  sweet,  low  voice  was  deeper, 
sweeter,  keener — it  went  to  the  point. 

Trent  understood  all  it  implied,  but  he  wanted  to  hear 
her  say  it. 

"You  dislike  daring  in  men?"  he  interrogated. 

As  she  turned  quickly  upon  him,  her  large,  luminous 
eyes  lit  by  the  intensity  of  her  passion,  she  exclaimed, 
"I  adore  it  in  men." 

They  left  the  Suresnes  and  were  now  nearing  the 
gate. 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  he,  with  a  thoughtful  shake  of  the 
head,  "I  am  afraid  you  would  not  like  the  life  of  a  brave 
man  as  much  as  you  admire  it." 

She  made  no  answer,  for  she  was  revolving  within 
that  subtle  mind,  so  capacious  in  matters  of  a  designing 
nature,  just  how  she  might  best  convince  Alverstone  that 
Lieutenant  Trent  and  the  young  American  singer  were 
betrothed,  for  she  told  herself  that  this  young  woman 
was  more  than  likely  the  cause  of  the  coldness  which 
Alverstone  had  shown  her  on  last  evening  after  the 
opera.  She  understood  that  he  was  totally  indifferent  to 
her,  and,  further,  that  he  was  glad  Lieutenant  Trent  and 
she  had  been  so  busy  with  themselves.  Yes,  and  she 
had  seen,  too,  that  he  had  been  the  one  to  tuck  in  the 
wraps  of  this  same  American  beauty  before  the  landau 
had  left  the  Opera. 

At  her  earliest  opportunity  she  would  make  Alver- 
stone afraid  to  notice  this  young  woman. 

Trent  adored  Madame  Nitolsk,  for  he  thought  she 
was  lost  in  a  delicious  revery  of  himself,  while  in  reality 
she  cared  nothing  more  for  Trent  than  she  did  for  any 
servant  of  any  color  who  might  serve  her  in  gaining  a 
desired  object. 

Her  head  turned  a  little,  though  she  did  not  look  at 
him.  There  was  an  ugly  light  in  her  eyes,  for  ugly 

63 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

thoughts  of  Julia  Pembroke  flit  through  her  mind; 
but  Trent  did  not  see  this,  for  he  was  looking  at  her 
lithe,  graceful  form. 

"You  do  not  know  me,"  she  said,  and  she  bent  gently 
toward  him,  as  if  the  whispered  words  might  be  audible 
to  a  passer-by.  Something  tinkled  on  the  hard  ground. 
Trent,  so  deeply  absorbed  in  the  mysteries  of  that  subtle 
something  emanating  from  the  personality  of  that  most 
subtle  of  women,  heard  nothing. 

-  "What  was  that?"  she  asked.  "It  sounded  like  gold- 
like  a  ten-franc  piece,"  she  added,  in  tones  of  great  won- 
derment. 

"What  is  what?"  asked  Trent,  in  answer.  "I  heard 
nothing,"  he  went  on,  slowly  emerging  from  a  peculiar 
abstraction. 

Instantly  Madame  Nitolsk  turned  her  horse,  and, 
pointing  toward  a  spot  with  her  dainty  little  whip,  said: 
"Ah,  there !  see !  it  is  mine — a  trinket.  I  dropped  it." 

Quickly  dismounting,  Trent  picked  up  the  tiny  orna- 
ment— a  dainty  little  lyre  of  gold,  set  with  three  tiny 
diamonds.  He  examined  it,  saying:  "Very  unique,  in- 
deed, my  dear  Madame." 

"It  pleases  you,  does  it?"  she  asked.  "Keep  it,  in 
remembrance  of  me,"  and  she  pushed  back  the  hand 
which  offered  it. 

"Oh!  Madame!    Madame!"— 

She  stopped  him  by  asking:    "You  like  me  a  little?" 

The  question  was  begging,  but  the  tone  was  tri- 
umphant. Trent,  who,  on  approaching  Madame  Nitolsk 
to  restore  the  lost  ornament,  had  thrust  his  arm  through 
the  rein  of  his  horse,  had  both  hands  free.  He  seized 
the  little  hand  in  both  of  his  and  fiercely  clasped  it  in 
his  own,  then  pressed  it  to  his  lips  passionately,  saying: 
"I  love  you,  I  love  you,  Madame  Nitolsk." 

64 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

She  smiled  down  upon  him,  then  almost  closed  her 
eyes,  as  if  she  wished  to  stamp  upon  her  memory  a  pleas- 
ing conquest,  a  cunning  stroke.  She  made  no  answer, 
but  her  dark  skin  changed  color — it  became  a  deep  red. 

The  sound  of  an  approaching  carriage  was  heard. 
Trent  mounted  his  horse  and  they  rode  away  under  the 
gates,  on  out  of  the  Bois,  and  cantered  off  along  the 
Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne,  the  admired  of  all  who 
saw  them,  for  to  see  them  was  to  notice,  then  admire; 
and  many  were  the  heads  turned  to  admire  the 
handsome  English  officer  and  his  beautiful  companion, 
who,  in  her  soft,  dark  green  velvet  habit,  with  its  trim- 
mings of  gold  lace — all  of  the  latest  mode — was  a  strik- 
ing beauty. 

Her  wicked  character  was  as  perfectly  concealed 
beneath  the  rich  velvets  as  are  the  claws  of  a  cat  under 
the  soft  velvet  paw. 

"You  will  not  forget  to  come  this  evening?"  said 
Trent,  as  he  was  about  to  leave  her. 

"Thank  you ;  I  assure  you  I  shall  not  forget,"  she 
made  answer.  Then  she  rode  in  under  the  big  doors  of 
her  mansion,  and  they  closed  immediately. 

Trent  went  off,  putting  his  horse  to  a  brisk  gallop. 
As  he  came  out  of  a  side  street,  intending  to  cross 
Champs  Elysees,  on  his  way  to  Rue  Marbeuf,  he  drew 
rein,  for  the  crowded  avenue  was  not  then  passable. 
Just  as  the  police  were  making  a  halt  in  the  line  cours- 
ing up  Champs  Elysees  and  his  horse  had  started  for- 
ward, he  saw  Julia  passing  on  the  sidewalk  behind  him. 
She  saw  him  and  bowed.  He  returned  the  compliment 
with  his  most  gracious  salute.  Many  turned  to  see  who 
was  so  highly  favored. 

Though  Trent's  mind  was  filled  with  images  of 
Madame  Nitolsk — images  of  the  various  poses  taken  by 
her  during  the  saunter  in  the  Bois — he  was  not  insen- 

65 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

sible  to  the  charms  of  the  fresh  young  American  girl, 
who  at  that  moment  had  given  him  as  fresh  and  as 
morally  healthy  a  smile  as  had  been  the  bow  and  smile 
of  Madame  Nitolsk  morally  unhealthy  and  degrading. 

He  thought:  "How  different  from  Madame  Nitolsk 
is  the  beautiful  American!  Each  has  a  charm  for  me, 
but" —  Here  his  thought  was  crushed  with  the  emotion 
which  thought  of  Madame  Nitolsk,  in  her  sinuous  seduc- 
tiveness,, aroused. 

Trent  should  have  seen  that  Julia  Pembroke  was 
capable  of  no  deceit — that  she  would  plan  no  evil  deed ; 
while  he  should  also  have  seen  that  Madame  Nitolsk  had 
made  him  as  the  rabbit  when  the  prey  of  a  boa  con- 
strictor— stupefied.  And  had  she  chosen  to  do  so,  she 
would  have  carried  to  a  finish  the  serpentine  propensity. 

When  Trent  had  put  out  his  hand  to  give  Madame 
Nitolsk  the  lyre  she  sat  upon  her  magnificent  horse, 
with  every  coil  of  the  boa  perfectly  visible  in  her  every 
motion  and  in  every  glance  of  her  glittering  eyes. 

Will  Trent  be  wise?  Only  his  blood  can  decide. 
What  of  his  blood?  That  is,  as  it  has  been  tended  and 
nurtured  for  a  generation,  or  for  generations — the  longer 
the  rose  is  cultivated  the  farther  it  goes  from  the  wild 
nature  in  which  it  was  first  found.  Just  so  with  the 
blood  of  a  person  or  a  family. 

Though  Trent  might  be  captivated  for  the  moment, 
his  was  a  fine  lineage,  and  he  was  less  likely  to  fall  into 
the  snare  set  by  the  "strange  woman"  than  he  would 
have  been  had  the  mothers  of  their  long  line  of  splendid 
English  ancestors  been  less  wisely  chosen.  It  was  with 
pardonable  pride  that  the  Trents  kept  a  special  gallery, 
in  which  were  hung  the  portraits  of  the  ancestors,  upon 
either  side  of  a  corridor,  through  which  one  might  walk 
and  look  upon  women  who  never  thought  an  evil  deed, 
much  less  planned  or  committed  one. 

66 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

As  Trent  was  about  to  turn  into  the  stables  he  saw 
Alverstone  coming  in  his  direction.  He  stopped  and 
waited  until  he  came  up. 

"Hello,  Alverstone !    Find  any  more  Apaches  ?" 

"No,  no  more  Apaches ;  but  I  am  on  my  way  to 
visit  our  Apache  victim  of  last  night." 

"How  thoughtful  you  are,"  replied  Trent.  "Give  him 
my  best  wishes  for  a  speedy  recovery." 

"I  shall  do  so.  You  don't  look  like  the  Apaches  had 
troubled  you  this  morning." 

"No,  indeed,"  Trent  made  answer,  with  great  empha- 
sis. "I  have  been  out  riding  some  two  hours  or  more." 

"You  have  a  fine  color  and  a  clear  eye.  The  air 
must  be  more  than  invigorating  where  you  rode.  Think 
I'll  take  a  turn  there  to-morrow,  if  you  will  disclose  this 
'Fountain  of  Youth/" 

"Ha !  ha !  ha !"  laughed  Trent,  well  knowing  the  real 
cause  of  his  bright  eye.  "I  was  riding  in  the  Bois, 
mostly  on  Route  de  Suresnes,"  and  then  he  laughed  again. 

Had  Alverstone  known  the  danger  he  would  there 
encounter,  in  the  person  of  Madame  Nitolsk,  he  would 
shun  that  entire  quarter  of  the  Bois  and  enjoy  his  morn- 
ing canter  in  another  part  of  the  great  park ;  for  Alver- 
stone cared  nothing  at  all  for  women  of  Madame 
Nitolsk's  order — women  incapacitated  to  entertain  the 
masculine  sex,  except  by  means  most  seductive — seduc- 
tive in  varying  degrees  of  seductiveness,  according  as  the 
victim  is  easy  or  difficult  'of  destruction. 

"Don't  forget  the  reception  this  evening,  Alverstone. 
Miss  Pembroke  will  be  there,"  said  Trent,  as  Alverstone 
started  to  go  on  his  way,  but  he  got  no  reply,  for  Alver- 
stone did  not  turn  around. 


67 


CHAPTER  VII. 

As  Alverstone  walked  on  he  felt  not  a  little  displeas- 
ure at  the  familiar  manner  in  which  Trent  had  spoken 
of  Miss  Pembroke,  especially  since  he  had  known  her 
but  two  days.  Alverstone  was  enough  judge  of  human 
nature  to  know  that  the  indiscretion  lay  entirely  with 
Trent.  He  required  no  other  recommendation  of  Julia 
Pembroke's  character  than  that  given  him  at  finding  her 
an  accepted  and  respected  guest  of  Lady  Trent;  for  to 
see  Lady  Trent  was  to  know  that  she  was  not  outbidden 
in  the  price  she  required  as  entrance  fee  to  her  circle 
of  personal  friends. 

By  this  time  Alverstone  had  crossed  Champs  Elysees, 
and  wisely  concluded  that  Trent  was  a  soldier,  and  had 
fought  well  and  bravely ;  that  it  was  narrow  and  unchar- 
itable to  wish  a  daring  man  to  be  at  all  times  a  delicate 
one. 

He  took  out  a  card  to  make  sure  of  the  name  of  the 
street.  He  remembered  the  number  distinctly. 

Yes,  it  was  Rue  du  General  Foy.  He  walked  on 
quite  rapidly  now,  for  he  had  yet  quite  a  distance  to  go. 

He  found  an  automatic  lift  at  the  entrance,  but 
Alverstone  feared  them,  having  had  narrow  escapes  from 
serious  accidents  in  them  on  several  occasions!  He  chose 
to  climb  the  steps. 

While  standing  on  the  fourth  landing  to  take  a  little 
rest,  he  mused  that  this  man  must  be  poor  to  live  so 
high,  for  he  had  been  directed  to  the  fifth  floor. 

However,  a  liveried  domestic  answered  his  ring  and 
led  him  into  a  very  elegantly  furnished  drawing-room, 
in  which  Etienne  Nevere,  the  injured  man,  was  seated. 

68 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

As  the  man  bent  forward  to  receive  his  visitor  more 
cordially  Alverstone  saw  in  his  face  an  expression  of 
pain.  Going  quickly  to  his  side,  Alverstone  said :  "I  beg 
of  you  do  not  exert  yourself.  You  are  better,  I  see." 

"Yes,  I  am,  thank  you.  Be  seated  here,  please,  close 
to  me,  where  we  can  have  a  little  talk,"  said  Nevere, 
laying  his  hand  on  an  easy-chair  near  him. 

Etienne  Nevere  was  a  man  of  some  fifty-five  years. 
He  was  of  medium  height,  neat  in  dress  and  general 
appearance,  strongly  built,  but  refined  withal.  The  short, 
black  beard  was  trimmed  to  a  point.  The  hair  was 
black,  thick  and  smoothly  dressed.  The  skin  was  dark, 
with  a  slight  pallor.  The  eyes  were  small,  keen,  intelli- 
gent, though  not  striking.  He  had  an  artist's  odd  way 
of  squinting  the  eyes,  which  made  them  seem  smaller 
than  they  really  were.  The  nose  was  strong  and  promi- 
nent and  marked  to  a  degree  with  the  Parisian  irregu- 
larity. The  hands  were  small,  white  and  effeminately 
molded.  He  had  an  easy  air,  combined  with  a  certain 
nervous  alertness. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Alverstone,  accepting  the  prof- 
fered seat. 

"That  Apache's  stick  might  have  ended  my  life," 
began  Nevere.  "Had  you  not  frightened  him,  I  think 
I  should  not  now  be  alive.  By  the  way,  who  was  the 
young  man  who  assisted  me  out  of  the  drug  store  ?" 

"That,"  replied  Alverstone,  "was  Lieutenant  Trent, 
an  English  officer,  visiting  Paris  on  his  way  from  India 
to  London.  He  sends  his  best  wishes  for  your  speedy 
recovery,  and  hopes  to  visit  you  to-morrow." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you ;  that  is  very  kind,  very  con- 
siderate of  you  both.  I  was  fortunate  that  you  passed 
my  way  at  that  hour — truly  fortunate." 

And  Nevere  shuddered  at  the  remembrance  of  the 
attack.  "These  poor  cabmen,"  continued  Nevere,  "afford 

69 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

no  protection  against  the  deadly  aim  of  these  ruffians. 
They  are  afraid  to  look  at  them,  well  knowing  it  may 
cost  life." 

I  have  been  quite  fortunate  in  that  respect,"  an- 
swered Alverstone.  He  paused  a  moment.  Nevere  said 
nothing,  and  Alverstone  went  on: 

"Lieutenant  Trent  and  I  were  on  our  way  from  the 
Opera — indirectly,  however,  as  we  had  sipped  our  wine 
at  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix" — 

"Cafe  de  la  Paix!"  ejaculated  Nevere.  "I  had  left 
there  but  a  very  short  time  before.  Strikes  me  I  recall 
seeing  you,  at  a  table  near  by,  where  I  sat  with  a  friend 
and  his  wife." 

"Was  that  you  who  entered  the  cafe  with  that  hand- 
some brunette  in  the  lemon  velvet?"  asked  Alverstone, 
in  enquiring  surprise. 

"Yes,  yes,  that  was  I.  She  is  the  wife  of  the  attorney 
La  Blanche,  and  that  was  he  at  the  table  when  we 
entered." 

"I  remember  well,"  said  Alverstone. 

"A  few  minutes  before  you  found  me,"  continued 
Nevere,  "the  victim  of  that  Apache,  I  had  left  Attorney 
La  Blanche  and  Madame  La  Blanche  at  their  door.  We 
often  walk  home  from  the  Opera  together.  They  are 
extreme  devotees  of  that  art.  By  the  way,  Monsieur 
Alverstone,  are  you  fond  of  the  opera?"  he  asked. 

"Very,  very  fond,  indeed,  sir." 

"Are  you  a  musician,  then?" 

"No/  answered  Alverstone;  "not  exactly  that;  not 
to  the  extent  of  the  performance.  I  am  a  great  lover  of 
the  art,  when  performed  by  others." 

"Do  you  attend  opera  much?" 

"Yes,  whenever  I  am  in  a  city  where  opera  is  given 
I  attend." 

"Ah,  you  do  not  live  in  Paris  ?" 

70 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"No,  this  is  not  my  home.  I  am  an  American — New 
York  is  my  home.  I  am  a  sojourner — a  traveler — any- 
thing you  will.  I  am  seeing  the  world,"  replied  Alver- 
stone. 

"Well !  well !  you  an  American !  I  thought  you  were 
a  Frenchman !" 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  Alverstone.  "Now  you  compli- 
ment me." 

"But  you  speak  French  without  an  accent,"  objected 
Nevere.  "You  must  have  spent  much  time  in  France 
to  do  this." 

"Yes,  I  have  been  in  France  a  number  of  years.  I 
was  brought  here  to  study  when  I  was  twelve.  Since 
then  I  have  crossed  the  Atlantic  many  times.  Now  I 
have  given  you  a  sketch  of  my  life,  may  I  ask  if  I  am 
correct  when  I  think  you  a  Frenchman  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed;  you  are  right  there.  I  am  a  French- 
man, a  true  Parisian — born  in  Paris,  lived  in  Paris  and 
will  die  in  Paris.  No  place  in  the  world  for  me  like 
Paris."  After  a  moment's  pause  he  concluded :  "I  am  a 
musician — a  flutist  at  the  Opera." 

"A  flutist!  a  musician!"  exclaimed  Alverstone,  in 
evident  surprise. 

"Yes,  I  am ;  nothing  strange  in  that,  is  there  ?" 

"Yes,  to  me  it  is  strange." 

"Why?" 

"I  had  taken  you  to  be  an  artist — a  painter — a  delin- 
eator of  character." 

"You  are  the  first  stranger  to  read  me  an  artist," 
replied  Nevere.  "I  generally  pass  for  a  musician.  How 
came  you  to  judge  me  a  painter?" 

"I  can  only  say,"  answered  Alverstone,  "that  you 
appear  the  artist-painter — portrait  painter." 

"You  must  have  some  strength  in  that  line  yourself, 
to  be  so  excellent  a  judge,"  said  Nevere.  "If  you  have 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

time,"  he  went  on,  "we  will  look  in  at  one  of  my  rooms." 

Nevere  opened  the  little  door  at  the  end  of  the 
hall  and  pushed  back  the  crimson  curtains,  "saying: 
"This  way,  please." 

Alverstone  was  totally  unprepared  for  the  sight  which 
met  his  view.  He  found  himself  standing  in  the  midst 
of  a  capacious  and  perfectly  equipped  atelier.  The  room 
was  two  stories  in  height,  and  vaulted,  and  the  entire 
back  was  of  glass.  As  the  back  faced  the  south  and 
looked  out  upon  a  large  garden,  a  flood  of  warm  sun- 
shine illumined  the  room  at  all  hours  of  the  day.  Across 
this  glass  end  were  hung  many  rich  curtains,  each  of  a 
different  shade. 

These  curtains  the  artist  adjusted  to  obtain  the 
desired  light  upon  his  model.  Two  beautiful  divans 
stood  across  opposite  corners  of  the  room.  Cushions 
and  draperies  were  seen  in  the  most  extravagant  pro- 
fusion, and  of  such  beauty  and  workmanship  as  would 
give  exquisite  delight  to  the  most  exacting  connoisseur 
of  that  art.  Against  the  wall,  directly  opposite  the  win- 
dow, was  a  large,  magnificent  throne  of  crimson  velvet 
and  gold.  The  canopy  of  the  throne  was  hung  with  deep 
gilt  fringe,  the  effect  ensemble  being  that  one  stood  in 
the  presence  of  royalty. 

All  around  the  room  stood  easels,  upon  each  of  which 
was  placed  a  portrait  unframed  and  in  some  stage  of 
development. 

Since  entering  the  studio  Alverstone  had  stood  dum- 
founded.  He  had  not  moved  a  muscle.  The  artist  spoke 
and  broke  the  spell. 

"You  are  surprised  at  my  little  studio?" 

"No,  I  am  not  surprised,"  replied  Alverstone.  "Sur- 
prised is  not  the  word — I  am  amazed.  You  are  a  great 
artist,  I  see." 

Then  he  walked  toward  the  portrait  of  a  Cardinal 

72 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

well  known  in  Europe.  The  Cardinal  was  seated  in  a 
large  chair,  and  the  artist  having  completed  the  work  in 
charcoal,  had  painted  the  head,  the  neck  and  a  small 
portion  of  one  shoulder. 

"You  make  his  excellency  the  Cardinal  do  duty  in 
paint  as  well  as  in  life,"  said  Alverstone,  smiling.  "I 
see  his  eyes  find  me  at  whatever  angle.  He  is  in  truth 
omnipresent." 

Then  Alverstone  walked  back  and  forth  in  front,  of 
the  portrait,  saying :  "This  is  fine,  fine,  indeed !  You  are 
a  great  artist,  I  know." 

Nevere  said  nothing;  he  only  smiled  a  satisfaction 
in  the  delight  of  his  guest.  Then  he  took  up  a  long  pole, 
used  for  adjusting  the  different  curtains  on  as  many 
different  rods  across  the  window,  and  pushed  back  all 
the  curtains  except  a  pair  of  delicate  white  silk  ones. 
These  he  drew  together  so  as  to  exclude  every  ray  of 
the  glaring  sunlight,  which  at  that  hour  of  the  day  was 
very  powerful — almost  blinding." 

"I  will  show  you  something  else,"  said  the  artist.  "I 
will  show  you  what  I  think  is  my  best.  I  have  just 
varnished  it,  and  in  that  state  of  development  I  never 
leave  a  portrait  in  this  room.  Now,  if  you  will  kindly 
excuse  me,  I  will  go  and  fetch  it." 

Alverstone,  still  looking  at  the  speaking  countenance 
of  the  Cardinal,  turned  toward  Nevere,  saying:  "I  can 
not  see  how  any  one  could  produce  a  portrait  finer  than 
this.  If  it  is  true  that  this  is  not  your  best,  I  assure 
you  I  am  glad  that  you  have  told  me  this  before  you 
introduced  your  masterpiece." 

Nevere  disappeared.  Alverstone  looked  around  at 
other  portraits.  He  understood  why  Nevere  lived  so 
high  up.  He  recognized  one  portrait  as  that  of  a  cabinet 
minister  whose  unfortunate  convictions  and  eloquent 
discourses  had  made  him  resign  his  office.  Another,  as 

73 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

that  of  a  society  woman  whom  Paris  had  known  for 
three  seasons,  and  who  would,  no  doubt,  to  all  outward 
appearance,  be  one  of  its  leaders  for  many  seasons  to 
come.  And,  too,  there  were  certain  men  of  genius,  whose 
long  hair  and  lean,  strong-set  faces  gave  them  their  badge 
of  distinction. 

Nevere  quickly  returned,  carrying  in  his  arms  a 
large,  unframed  canvas,  keeping  the  back  toward  Alver- 
stone.  He  placed  it  upon  an  easel,  where  he  knew  the 
light  was  best. 

Alverstone  at  once  recognized  the  woman  whose 
beauty  had  attracted  Lieutenant  Trent  at  the  Cafe  de 
la  Paix. 

"There,  that  is  my  best.  You  recognize  her?" 
inquired  Nevere. 

"Yes,"  answered  Alverstone,  quickly ;  "she  is  the  lady 
who  entered  the  cafe  with  you  last  evening." 

"It  is  she,"  said  Nevere;  "Madame  La  Blanche,  the 
attorney's  wife,  of  whom  I  spoke." 

"That  is  surely  perfect,"  said  Alverstone. 

The  artist  said  nothing,  only  stood  smiling,  lost  in 
contemplation  of  his  work,  that,  to  him,  represented  the 
best  of  which  his  talent  was  capable. 

"You  are  a  genius.  You  will  place  this  portrait  in  the 
Salon  next  season,  will  you  not?" 

"If  Madame  permits,  I  shall  do  so." 

The  portrait  represented  Madame  La  Blanche  seated 
and  taken  three-quarter  size.  The  arms  and  neck  bare, 
only  a  small  strap  across  the  shoulders.  The  dress  fit 
very  close  to  the  figure.  The  chest  was  high  and  the 
waist  tapered  gracefully,  according  to  the  French  notion 
of  a  fashionable  waist  line.  The  dress,  of  lemon-colored 
velvet,  contrasted  well  with  the  dark  beauty  of  the  hair 
and  eyes.  A  diamond  dog  collar  clasped  around  her 
throat.  She  was  seated  upon  a  dainty  mahogany  chair, 

74 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

one  arm  of  which  was  obliterated  by  suitable  draperies; 
the  other  arm  of  the  chair,  which  was  hidden  from  sight 
by  three  small  cushions,  gave  sufficient  support  for  the 
right  arm,  which  rested  there  in  graceful  harmony  with 
the  position  of  the  body  and  the  poise  of  the  head. 

Alverstone  could  find  nothing  so  strikingly  beautiful 
in  the  form  or  the  face  of  the  model,  for  she  was  that 
fastidiously  fashionable  beauty  which  social  Paris  adores. 
But  the  way  the  light  caught  the  rich  lemon  velvet  at 
the  round  of  the  folds  and  chased  the  shadows  into  its 
hollows  was  bewitching. 

Upon  the  velvet  festooned  across  the  chest  were  odd 
lights  and  shadows.  They  did  not  come  from  a  general 
light,  for  they  were  too  small  and  seemed  to  quiver.  They 
were  the  small  reflections  cast  from  the  diamonds  worn 
at  her  throat. 

"Come,"  said  Nevere,  going  toward  a  divan;  "come, 
let  us  be  seated  here  and  take  this  view  of  the  portrait." 

Alverstone  accepted  the  seat,  remarking  as  he  did 
so :  "You  must  be  very  fond  of  music  to  obligate  yourself 
to  the  discharge  of  the  daily  duties  devolving  upon  a 
flutist  at  the  Opera." 

"Every  one  says  that,  but  the  cause  of  my  devotion 
to  my  flute  is  a  very  long  tale,"  and  he  stared  toward  the 
canvas,  but  his  eyes  looked  over  it,  as  though  they  peered 
into  some  dark  corner.  Then,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
he  continued :  "I  like  you,  my  young  man,  and  if  you  have 
time  and  care  to  listen,  I  will  tell  you  my  story." 

"I  have  time,  and  I  am  pleased  to  be  privileged  to 
listen  to  words  from  so  great  a  genius  as  I  find  here,  in 
the  person  of  Etienne  Nevere." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Nevere,  smiling  faintly;  "you  are 
very  kind,  my  friend,"  he  went  on,  "for  such  you  are. 
Let  us  have  a  smoke." 

And  in  preparation  he  opened  a  rose-pearl  cigarette 

75' 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

case,  which  lay  upon  the  little  stand  near  him. 

"No  doubt  yours  are  the  best,  but  I  have  here  a 
cigarette  which  I  would  like  you  to  try  first,"  said  Alver- 
stone,  as  he  took  from  his  pocket  the  little  jeweled  cigar- 
ette case  which  he  always  carried  with  him. 

They  smoked  Alverstone's  first,  and  then  Nevere's, 
then  Alverstone's  again  before  they  left  the  studio. 

There  was  a  long  time  that  neither  spoke.  They  only 
smoked  and  looked  vacantly  at  the  slowly  circling  clouds 
of  smoke,  and  strange,  but  not  infrequent,  these  chance- 
made  friends  smoked  regularly  and  in  unison.  And 
when  the  rings  of  visible  exhalations  had  become  so  big 
that  they  vanished  into  the  air  of  the  room,  the  two  men 
were  still  looking  absently  at  the  creation  in  the  lemon- 
colored  velvet. 

"When  I  was  a  young  man,"  began  Nevere,  "about 
your  age,  five-and-twenty,  and  a  happy  enthusiast  in  my 
studio,  I  had  painted  many  persons  of  renown — some  of 
great  renown.  Many  of  my  pictures  hung  in  the  Salon. 
I  had  been  awarded  prizes — yes,  I  was  happy — I  was 
young,  and,  like  you,  I  had  never  loved  deeply." 

He  set  his  jaw.  His  eyes  grew  very  small  and  fierce, 
and  the  tone  rang  hard  and  regretful. 

Alverstone  saw  for  the  first  time  that  Nevere  was 
not  such  an  easy,  careless  man  as  he  had  seemed  at  first. 

"One  day  a  young  woman  came  into  my  studio.  She 
was  in  company  with  a  composer,  at  that  time  very  cele- 
brated, and  for  whom  I  was  painting  a  portrait.  He 
wished  her  to  see  the  portrait,  and  she  had  come  to  stay 
through  the  sitting.  She  came  but  once — she  remained 
forever.  Do  not  start  so,  my  friend;  she  is  not  here  in 
person.  She  is  here  only  in  memory — in  sacred,  sacred 
memory. 

"When  the  composer  came  for  the  next  sitting  I 
asked  him  who  she  was.  He  explained  that  she  was  a 

76 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

lyric  soprano,  who  had  just  made  her  debut  at  the  Mon- 
naie,  Brussels,  and  was  now  singing  in  the  Opera  House 
here.  I  knew  nothing  of  music,  but  had  a  naturally  good 
tenor  voice.  I  began  the  cultivation  of  my  voice,  choos- 
ing for  my  master  a  celebrity  here  in  Paris.  The  master 
said:  'My  boy,  you  have  a  fine  voice,  a  promising  one.' 
After  three  years  of  assiduous  application  I  left,  with  my 
voice  completely  broken — ruined — lost  beyond  recovery. 
I  have  never  since  been  able  to  sing  a  note.  My  physi- 
cians pronounced  it  a  case  of  destruction  of  the  vocal 
cords  by  gas,  for  at  that  time  I  used  gas  for  lighting 
purposes.  After  that  my  master,  who  had  been  proud 
of  my  voice,  told  every  member  of  his  school  the  danger 
lurking  in  the  use  of  gas,  for  gas  entirely  destroys  the 
delicate  velvet  on  the  vocal  cords. 

"Then  came  two  months  of  deep  despair.  The  deeper 
it  became  the  stronger  grew  my  love.  One  day  I  chanced 
to  see  this  idol  of  my  heart  conversing  with  a  flutist.  It 
was  my  hope.  I  decided  at  once  to  be  a  flutist.  Then 
I  would  play  for  her.  She  wrould  converse  with  me.  My 
ecstasy  became  almost  as  wild  as  had  been  my  despair. 
I  entered  heart  and  soul  into  the  study  of  the  flute.  For 
it  was  my  first  love,  as  it  is  now,  and  I  loved  with  my 
soul.  Then  came  my  engagement  at  the  Opera,  where 
you  see  me  now.  Her  engagement  there  expired  at  the 
end  of  my  first  year  as  flutist. 

"In  the  years  that  followed  she  often  came  back,  but 
only  for  a  night  at  a  time.  Millions  of  the  music-loving 
portion  of  the  large  cities  have  listened  to  the  wealth 
of  glorious  melody  which  she  has  poured  forth  upon  them, 
while  I — I — have  remained  a  stationary  flutist,  in  order 
that  on  each  return  of  my  beautiful  singer  I  may  at  least 
say  a  few  words,  and  they  are  a  very  few  at  most.  But, 
alas !"  and  a  deep  sigh  escaped  his  well-drawn  lips,  "it 
was  too  late;  she  was  married  to  an  exacting  creature — 

77 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

her  art — I  would  not  tell  this  to  every  one.  No  doubt 
you  have  heard  this  woman  sing.  She  was  Queen  Mar- 
guerite in  'Les  Huguenots'  last  night." 

Alverstone  started,  and  a  smothered  cry  escaped  him. 

"Yes,  she  is  Madame  Cinati,"  explained  Nevere,  in 
a  resigned  tone.  "It  is  a  dreadful  thing,  my  friend,  to 
love  a  singer — a  serious  singer. 

"Beware !  they  are  as  beautiful  as  gems.  They  shine, 
they  twinkle.  Kings  and  people  have  spoiled  them  so. 
Nothing  is  rare  or  lovely  to  them.  They  are  so  cold." 

Alverstone  had  grown  so  reflective  that  it  was  not  the 
past  story  of  a  flutist,  but  the  real  one  of  a  young  life — 
his  own — enacting  itself  upon  its  own  plain. 

"Beware !  singers  are  cold."  What  hard  words  they 
were.  Were  they  true?  He  could  almost  feel  his  heart 
beat.  His  face  had  changed.  He  did  not  see  the  change, 
but  the  painter  did,  and  the  story-teller,  artist  that  he 
was,  paused  in  his  narrative  to  catch  the  lines. 

Nevere  understood  why  they  were  there.  He  had 
looked  before  into  a  mirror,  when  love  had  first  tasted 
at  his  heart,  and  he  remembered  where  and  how  the 
lines  were  drawn. 

At  last  Alverstone  awoke  from  his  reverie,  for  the 
voice  of  his  companion  had  changed.  It  was  too 
shrewdly  wise — as  age  when  it  laughs  at  the  love  of 
youth. 

"You  are  in  love,  deeply  in  love.  Whoever  she  may 
be,  if  she  be  a  singer  or  artist-pupil — beware !  and  when 
she  smiles  sweetly  or  sings  divinely,  remember  it  is  for 
her  art — and  it  will  always  be  thus.  Beware !  Beware !" 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Some  time  before  the  evening,  at  the  Hotel  Cecil  in 
London,  the  Trents  had  sent  out  invitations  for  a  soiree 
et  souper  to  be  given  in  Paris,  at  the  mansion  of  Lady 
Trent's  sister,  the  'Princesse  de  Loire.  It  was  In  honor 
of  their  son,  Sir  Reginald  Trent,  to  be  Earl  of  Essexby, 
Lieutenant  of  the  23d  Light  Guard.  Some  hundreds  of 
very  congenial  friends  had  been  invited,  and  now  on  this 
Tuesday  evening  the  guests  were  arriving  almost  ensem- 
ble, for  every  kind  of  carriage  and  automobile  was  seen 
in  the  long  line,  slowly  taking  its  place  in  front  of  the 
mansion,  in  at  the  entrance  of  which  hundreds  of  beau- 
tiful women  and  handsome  men  made  their  way. 

Large,  stately  halls,  spacious,  gilded,  mirrored  salons, 
and  vast,  vaulted  galleries  had  been  thrown  open  and 
beautifully  decorated  for  the  occasion. 

The  immense  conservatory  was  dimly  lighted  through- 
out, and  amid  its  wilderness  of  tropical  plants,  many  of 
them  of  the  rarest  species,  and  its  profusion  of  delicately 
scented  flowers  banked  on  every  side,  were  to  be  found 
many  seats,  along  the  labyrinthian  ways  which  led 
through  this  delightful  garden  of  beauty ;  and  while  some 
seats  were  in  conspicuous  places,  others  were  less  promi- 
nent, while  some  were  entirely  hidden  from  the  eye  of 
the  casual  observer,  but  easily  found  by  the  more  or  less 
inquisitive  in  search  of  a  quiet  chat  with  a  friend.  On 
every  side  was  found  evidence  of  the  great  wealth  and 
exquisite  taste  of  the  owner  of  the  mansion,  and  all  who 
were  so  fortunate  as  to  find  themselves  there  were  sure 
to  remember  the  occasion  as  one  of  more  than  passing 
moment. 

An  army  of  servants  in  imposing  livery  was  in 
attendance  from  the  time  the  -first  carriage  made  the 

79 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

turn  around  the  pink  marble  fountain  in  the  great  court 
and  drew  rein  before  the  massive  stone  arch  of  the  main 
entrance  way,  until  it  rolled  away  again  and  the  heavy 
outside  gates  closed  behind  it.  These  very  self-important 
personages  can  add  much  to  the  beauty  of  a  scene,  if 
they  wish  to  do  so,  and  in  the  mansion  of  the  Princesse 
de  Loire  all  was  dignity,  grace,  beauty;  for  the  servant 
etiquette  was  a  severe  code,  and  all  knew  it  and  obeyed  it. 

Everywhere  one  found  the  arrangement  perfect  and 
magnificent.  Some  of  those  invited  were  there  because  it 
was  the  fashion  in  their  social  circle ;  others,  out  of  curi- 
osity; some,  for  political  reasons,  and  still  others  because 
of  the  matrimonial  possibilities  with  the  young  English 
officer,  Reginald  Trent,  in  whose  honor  the  evening  was 
given;  but  many,  because  they  loved  the  noble  Lady 
Trent  and  approved  of  the  life  and  character  of  herself 
and  of  her  honorable  husband,  Lord  Trent. 

Among  the  large  number  of  distinguished  guests  of 
the  hour  were  many  from  the  artistic  world — painters, 
sculptors,  musicians,  composers;  and,  too,  there  were 
statesmen,  men  of  letters,  naval  officers,  soldiers,  besides 
quite  a  number  of  Americans,  renowned  for  their  wealth 
or  artistic  abilities;  and,  of  course,  there  were  many 
from  the  high  titled  aristocracy  of  both  England  and  the 
Continent. 

In  most  instances  each  gentleman  was  accompanied  by 
the  ladies  of  his  family,  in  sufficient  number  at  least  to 
give  a  tone  of  brilliance  and  gaiety ;  to  which,  when  was 
added  the  bright  uniforms  of  the  soldiers  and  officers, 
the  scene  became  one  of  superb  grandeur,  as  well  as  one 
of  bright,  sparkling,  enjoyable  intercourse. 

For,  as  every  one  knows,  there  is  nothing  so  surely 
predicts  the  success  of  an  evening  as  diversity  of  taste 
among  the  guests. 

80 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Outside  the  moon  hung  high  up  over  Napoleon's  Arc 
de  Triomphe — a  silver  boat,  with  both  horns  horizontal 
and  pointing  northeast  and  southwest.  It  dipped  and 
floated  and  dipped  again  through  the  large  fleecy  clouds 
chasing  rapidly  across  the  deep  blue  of  the  midnight  sky ; 
for  the  clock  had  just  passed  the  eleventh  hour  of  the 
night  before  the  last  carriage  bearing  the  invited  guests 
had  arrived. 

Here,  there,  everywhere,  were  seen  little  groups 
chatting  gaily  the  while  in  bits  of  lively  conversation  or 
promenading  m  couples,  through  the  .spacious  halls  and 
salons;  some  stopping  now  and  then  to  enjoy  with  some 
group  or  couple  the  flashes  of  wit  or  humor  flung  out  and 
parried  by  the  brilliant  contestants  for  the  honor  of 
supremacy  in  the  battle,  then  flitting  on  again  to  join 
some  other  interesting  group,  until  the  whole  resplendent 
throng  reflected  the  dazzling  brilliancy  of  a  restless  sun- 
lit sea. 

In  all  this  happy  world  of  ceaseless  activity  there  was 
at  least  one  incongenial  soul — one  who  seemed  to  seek 
in  vain  for  some  one  or  something.  This  was  an  indi- 
vidual who,  after  a  turn  of  all  the  galleries,  salons  and 
recesses,  took  a  position  in  the  first  salon,  behind  a 
bank  closely  built  of  tall  ferns.  From  this  point  it  was 
easy  for  him  to  see  the  faces  of  those  who  came  to  pay 
their  respects  to  Lord  and  Lady  Trent  and  their  son, 
Lieutenant  Trent,  at  the  head  of  the  receiving  line.  He 
had  not  long  to  wait,  for  soon  from  the  depths  of  his 
retreat  he  heard  approaching  footsteps  that  told  of  a  duty 
yet  unperformed. 

Peering  through  the  interlocking  fern  fronds  he  saw — 
oh !  yes,  he  saw  the  face  of  the  young  woman  who  alone 
could  still  the  tumult  within  his  soul.  Did  he  see  Madame 
Cinati  ?  No,  though  she  was  there,  radiant  in  her  loveli- 

81 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

ness.  She  was  handsomely  gowned  in  bright  pink, 
which,  with  her  diamond  tiara,  gave  one  the  impression 
of  a  beautiful  rose  crowned  with  a  dewdrop  tiara  spark- 
ling brilliantly  and  reflecting  the  prismatic  colors  in  scin- 
tillating profusion ;  and  besides  this  fascination  of  out- 
ward appearance,  a  world-renowned  prima  donna  always 
radiates  from  depths  of  hidden  resources  a  strength — her 
greatest  power ;  and  in  this  characteristic  Madami  Cinati 
had  no  superior,  for  she  was  one  of  those  singers  who 
are  known  to  the  entire  civilized  world  as  noble  women, 
whose  hearts  as  well  as  voices  are  divinely  inspired  to  do 
good  wherever  God,  in  His  unerring  wisdom,  leads  their 
steps  or  guides  as  a  bird,  from  clime  to  clime,  their  cer- 
tain flight. 

Such  persons  are  not  to  be  compared  with  ordinary 
mortals,  but  are  like  unto  some  king,  leader  of  men, 
poet,  priest  or  prophet,  who  rises  up  from  the  mass, 
absorbing  and  representing  the  thoughts,  feelings,  pur- 
poses, sentiments  of  a  generation  of  men  or  a  race  of 
people. 

But  Hampton  Alverstone  saw  not  Madame  Cinati,  nor 
even  heard  the  crystalline  quality  of  her  voice,  for  there 
was  admitted  to  his  mind's  eye  but  the  one  image,  and 
that  was  of  the  woman  for  whom  he  had  searched  since 
his  arrival,  and  about  whose  coming  he  had  begun  to 
have  a  shade  of  doubt. 

Now  she  was  here,  and  would  he  let  beauty,  fascina- 
tion, power,  any  commendable  qualification  attributable 
to  cultivated  humanity,  snatch  from  him  one  moment  of 
the  exquisite  joy — joy  akin  to  pain — he  felt  at  seeing  her ! 

His  eyes  followed  them  as,  after  due  ceremony,  they 
left  the  receiving  line,  passing  down  the  way  that  all 
graciously  accorded  them,  for  to  most  of  those  assembled 
Madame  Cinati  was  a  personal  friend ;  and  on  this  occa- 
sion her  vivacious  manner,  as  she  turned  on  this  side  and 

82 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

i 

on  that  to  acknowledge  the  homage  all  vied  with  one 
another  in  paying  her,  was  most  charming.  The  warm 
smiles  of  her  fine,  sensitive  mouth  played  hide  and  seek 
with  the  happy  lights  constantly  seen  in  her  large  brown 
eyes,  and  were  changeful  only  to  suit  each  particular 
person  or  persons  with  whom  she  paused  for  a  moment. 

Julia  was  beside  her  and  presented  a  picture  of  charm- 
ing simplicity  in  her  white  dress  of  exquisite  crepe  de 
Chine.  She  wore  no  jewels  except  a  small  string  of 
pearls  clasped  around  her  neck,  and  carried  only  a  dainty 
little  fan.  She  was  in  pleasing  contrast  with  the  great, 
brilliant,  captivating  Madame  Cinati. 

Alverstone  tried  to  get  near  them  by  going  directly 
through  the  grand  salon,  but  owing  to  the  nearness  of 
the  receiving  line,  where  guests  always  linger  in  crowd- 
ing parties,  he  soon  saw  that  this  was  not  easy.  He 
decided  to  pass  through  an  adjoining  salon  and  come 
out  at  the  farther  end,  where  he  would  meet  them  in 
their  course  down  the  first  salon. 

When  nearing  the  tediously  sought  door — for  in  this 
salon  there  were  many  guests  as  well — he  saw  Madame 
Nitolsk,  at  some  little  distance,  coming  toward  him,  as 
fast  as  she  could  make  her  way  through  the  groups  and 
promenaders.  But  before  she  had  approached  near 
enough  to  attract  his  attention,  Alverstone  at  once 
affected  total  ignorance  of  her  presence  and  abruptly 
turned  and  quickly  lost  himself  in  the  thickest  of  the 
crowd.  After  quite  a  little  struggle  on  his  part — for  he 
had  held  himself  to  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  wishing  to 
remain  perfectly  concealed  from  Madame  Nitolsk,  he 
found  himself  through  the  door  he  had  at  first  tried  to 
gain  and  in  the  second  salon. 

But  this  had  taken  him  longer  than  he  had  expected, 
and  as  he  scanned  the  faces  of  the  many  groups  about 
him  he  could  not  see  Julia's  face  nor  that  of  Madame 

83 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Cinati.  Suddenly  a  sweet  crystalline  voice  just  behind 
made  him  turn.  It  was  Madame  Cinati.  She  was  con- 
versing with  the  Austrian  Ambassador  and  the  wife  of 
an  English  General;  but  Alverstone  had  never  had  the 
honor  of  a  personal  friendship  with  Madame  Cinati,  so 
continued  on  a  short  distance  farther. 

Here  he  found  Julia  seated  and  conversing  with  an 
Italian  Prince  and  the  Spanish  Ambassador,  both  of 
whom  she  engaged  in  a  very  lively  conversation. 

As  he  came  up  behind  them,  this  being  the  only 
avenue  of  approach,  he  heard  her  clear  voice,  now  speak- 
ing in  the  beautiful  language  of  Tasso  with  the  Italian 
Prince  and  in  the  polite  language  of  the  French  with  the 
Spanish  Minister.  Alverstone  could  not  speak  from  the 
position  in  which,  for  the  near  present  at  least,  he  was 
forced  to  remain. 

He  could  wait,  though — he  was  content,  for  he  was 
near.  He  was  not  jealous  of  the  Prince,  and  the  Spanish 
Minister  was  the  husband  of  the  lady  just  a  few  steps 
before  him,  who  just  then  was  having  an  animated  con- 
versation with  a  literary  man,  whom  Alverstone  knew 
as  a  noted  American  writer — a  novelist. 

He  could  not  help  hearing  the  comments  upon  the 
subject  of  music  which  passed  between  Julia  and  her  two 
companions,  and  he  was  proud  to  know  that  his  young 
countrywoman  was  fully  capable  of  continuing  at  some 
length  the  conversation,  which  it  was  very  evident  had 
not  been  engaged  in  for  the  sake  of  ceremony  alone — 
and  with  such  men,  for  both  were,  first  and  foremost, 
fiercely  interested  in  all  that  pertained  to  statesmanship, 
and  were  not  often  held  for  long  upon  a  subject  not 
either  directly  or  indirectly  touching  upon  a  question  of 
state. 

Finally  Alverstone  succeeded  in  stepping  around  and 
in  front  of  the  three. 

84 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

Julia  at  once  put  out  her  hand,  saying:  "Good  eve- 
ning, Mr.  Alverstone ;  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you." 

"Thank  you ;  I  have  been  close  behind  you  for  some 
little  time.  I  could  not  help  hearing  your  lively  discus- 
sion." 

"You  are  fond  of  music?"  said  the  Prince,  with  an 
interrogation  in  his  voice. 

"Ah,  very,  Prince;  very,  very." 

"This  is  a  fine  place  to  be,  then,  for  we  are  to  have 
an  excellent  program  this  evening,"  asserted  the  Spanish 
Minister. 

"And  it  is  to  be  rendered  by  the  best  talent  in  the 
world,"  said  the  American  Ambassador,  who  had  come 
up  just  when  the  Minister  had  begun  to  speak. 

Julia  looked  up  at  Alverstone  and  smiled.  He  smiled 
back  at  her,  saying:  "We  are  all  artists — not  all  artists 
as  to  the  performance,  but  I  think  I  can  say  in  truthful- 
ness that  we  are  all  artist-listeners." 

"Ah,  ha!  my  countryman;  that  is  well  put,"  said  the 
American  Ambassador,  patting  Alverstone  on  the  shoul- 
der in  fatherly  fashion.  "I  had  not  thought  of  it  in  that 
light,  but  I  often  wondered  what  position  I  did  hold  in 
the  musical  world.  Now  I  see ;  I  play  no  instrument  and 
I  sing  only  the  simplest  melodies,  but  now  I  see  I  am 
an  artist-listener,  for  I  could  listen  without  ceasing  to 
the  great  artists  of  song  and  of  instrumentation." 

This  the  Ambassador  gave  to  his  auditors  with  no 
little  bit  of  eloquence,  for  he  had  always  been  especially 
gifted  in  holding  attentions,  and  on  this  occasion  he  had 
the  added  good  fortune  of  speaking  to  gentlemen  of 
European  cultivation,  and  every  one  knows  what  that 
means. 

Then  all  smiled  and  assented  to  the  .declaration  of  the 
American,  and  then  their  eyes  followed  in  the  direction 

85 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

indicated  by  the  Prince,  who  said:  "Now,  there  is  one 
who  will  exhaust  every  resource  of  all  who  are  able  to 
listen  to  his  art." 

"Ah!"  said  Julia;  "you  refer  to  the  pianist?" 

"Yes,  it  is  he,"  replied  the  Prince;  "he  is  on  the 
program  this  evening." 

"Monsieur  Dedireaux  is  great — great — great,"  said 
Julia,  thoughtfully,  shaking  her  head,  while  pro- 
nouncing the  adjective  thrice  and  very  slowly,  as  if  she 
were  under  the  spell  of  some  of  Monsieur  Dedireaux's 
inspirations  upon  the  piano. 

The  American  Ambassador  here  addressed  himself 
to  Madame  Cinati,  who  had  just  come  up,  saying:  "My 
dear  Madame  Cinati,  allow  me  to  thank  you  for  the 
very  kind  protection  you  have  given  my  little  American 
girl,  Miss  Pembroke." 

"Ah,  kind  sir,"  replied  Madame  Cinati,  "I  beg  of 
you  desist.  Miss  Pembroke  is  a  true  American  girl, 
consequently  quite  capable  of  protecting  herself.  Beyond 
a  little  advice,  I  assure  you  she  has  required  no  attention 
from  me.  My  dear  sir,  your  country  produces  much 
gold,  much  financial  wealth,  but,  what  is  of  vastly 
greater  importance  to  any  nation,  your  country  is  filled 
with  self-reliant  women — both  young  and  old." 

She  paused,  and,  elevating  her  eyebrows,  smiled 
with  lips  slightly  parted  and  looked  into  his  face  with 
a  questioning  expression,  which  seemed  to  ask,  "True, 
is  it  not?"  And  then  she  looked  at  Julia,  who  had 
attracted  her  by  a  pretty  little  aspirated  ha!  ha! 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,  Madame  Cinati,  in  behalf 
of  my  countrywomen,  I  thank  you.  I  know  you  speak 
from  the  sincerity  of  your  heart.  I  am  pleased  to  hear 
this  eulogium  from  one  who  has  visited  all  lands  and 
who  knows  all  the  principal  nations  of  the  world." 

"Ah,  Prince,  you  here?"  said  a  newcomer — a  Count 

86 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Dunkellsdorf,  a  German  officer,  in  full  dress  uniform — 
addressing  himself  to  the  Prince.  "But,  pardon,  I  should 
have  known  that  you  were  here." 

"Why  should  you  know?"  asked  the  Prince.  "I 
might  not  have  been  so  fortunate." 

"Aha!  my  Prince;  I  should  expect  you  to  be  here 
for  the  reason  that  I  just  left  Madame  the  Princesse." 

"Ah!  did  you?    Where  is  she  now?" 

"About  halfway  up  this  salon,  in  company  with  some 
friends,  and  she  is  very  happy." 

The  Prince  excused  himself,  saying  that  he  wished 
to  speak  with  his  mother,  and  he,  in  company  with  the 
German  officer,  went  away. 

The  American  Ambassador  and  the  Spanish  Minister 
were  lost  to  all  but  themselves,  and  were  in  danger, 
through  an  aberration  of  the  brain,  of  going  off  into  a 
very  heated  discussion  over  the  Philippine  question. 

Alverstone  had  slipped  into  the  seat  left  vacant  by 
the  departure  of  the  Prince,  and  Julia  and  Alverstone 
were  alone,  for  though  in  the  grand  salon  of  the  man- 
sion of  the  Prince  de  Loire,  and  in  the  midst  of  many 
hundreds  of  guests,  they  were  entirely  alone — alone — 
together — and  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives. 

But  to  have  seen  them  sitting  there,  chatting  quietly, 
with  not  the  slightest  sign  of  nervousness  betrayed  by 
either,  and  yet  with  nothing  of  the  undue  familiarity 
of  the  snobbish  American,  one  could  scarcely  be  induced 
to  believe  that  this  was  their  first  meeting;  yet  it  was, 
since  the  little  time  in  the  Opera  on  the  evening  before 
had  afforded  no  opportunity  for  such  a  delicious  bit  of 
a  tete-a-tete  as  was  this. 

"Since  coming,  I  have  spent  the  entire  time  in  looking 
for  you,"  observed  Alverstone. 

"Why,  how  can  you  say  that,  when  all  around  you 
are  the  most  attractive  ladies  and  brave,  handsome,  wise 

87 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

and  learned  men?"  and  she  laughed  sweetly. 

"I  agree  that  you  assert  facts,  but  so  do  I  when  I 
say  I  have  sought  you  and  I  have  cared  for  no  one 
else;  for,  Miss  Pembroke,  I  have  something  of  especial 
interest  to  say  to  you." 

"To  me?"  she  asked,  with  exclamatory  effect. 

"Yes,  Miss  Pembroke.     I— I"— 

"Oh!  oh!  pardon  me,  but  that  is  Madame  Cinati 
singing.  Let  us  go  to  the  music  room." 

.  The  crowd  in  the  salon  had  melted  away  unobserved 
by  the  happy  pair.  She  arose  and  went  quickly  in  the 
direction  of  the  music  room,  followed  by  Alverstone. 

They  took  chairs  just  inside  the  music  room,  but  at 
a  point  from  which  they  could  see  Madame  Cinati,  who 
was  then  singing  the  Bell  Song  from  "Lakme" — sing- 
ing in  all  the  beauty  which  the  singing  of  that  aria  war- 
rants. 

Julia  feasted  her  eyes  upon  Madame  Cinati  alone, 
and  every  emotion  expressed  by  the  prima  donna  found 
ready  response  within  the  soul  of  Julia.  Her  face 
registered  the  gain. 

But  Alverstone,  seated  a  little  back  and  to  the  left  of 
Julia,  could,  without  an  unseemly  display  of  his  adoring 
spirit,  look  at  Julia.  He  heard  not  the  plaintive  melody, 
nor  the  capricious  flights  of  the  simple  Hindoo  legend; 
nor  did  he  hear  that  almost  impossible  coloratura  pas- 
sage— the  fantastic  tinkle  of  the  tiny  silver  bell,  with 
its  lavish  precipitous  staccatos,  its  throbbing  trills,  its 
fluttering  descents,  its  enrapturing  roulades  and  its  inces- 
santly heedless  consideration  of  cherished  notes.  He 
saw  only  Julia.  Since  that  day  near  the  master's  he 
had  known  no  peace  of  mind.  He  had  followed  her  from 
afar,  yet  as  close  as  lie  dare  with  consistency  do  so,  and 
now  she  was  here,  beside  him,  and  he  could  speak  to 
her  as  much  and  as  often  as  etiquette  of  the  evening 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

would  permit;  and  she  was  pleased  with  him — this  he 
could  not  help  seeing.  How  could  he?  And  if  she  did 
not  hold  him  in  the  same  regard  in  which  he  held  her, 
at  least  her  manner  showed  a  pleased  contentment  in 
his  attentions. 

When  Madame  Cinati  had  finished  singing  and  the 
hum,  of  voices  lifted  in  compliment  to  the  vocal  powers 
of  the  singer,  became  general,  Julia  turned  her  large, 
liquid  eyes  upon  Alverstone.  He  saw  and  read  in  their 
depths  a  verification  of  what  he  had  been  noting  men- 
tally. Yes,  Julia  Pembroke's  eyes  spoke  the  silent  lan- 
guage of  love.  He  believed  he  would  ask  her  to  prome- 
nade, but  just  then  the  great  pianist  took  his  seat  and 
the  piano  was  speaking  soulfully  to  the  assembled  guests, 
who,  listening  breathlessly,  seemed  electrified  under  the 
spell  produced  by  the  contact  of  the  fingers  of  the  grand 
old  pianist  with  the  keys  of  the  instrument,  out  through 
which  he  poured  his  soul. 

To  one  whose  ears  have  never  known  piano  music 
beyond  the  thrum  of  the  average  performer,  the  wealth 
of  sympathetic  glory  sent  out  from  the  magnetic  fingers 
of  the  old  genius  could  never  be  imagined. 

When  he  had  gone  through  all  the  soul-stirring  move- 
ments of  Beethoven's  Sonata  in  C  sharp  minor,  one 
certainly  felt  as  did  the  blind  girl,  when  Ludwig  von 
Beethoven  composed  it  and  gave  her,  through  the  medi- 
um of  that  instrument  upon  which  his  fingers  wrought, 
the  sympathetic  imagery  of  his  soul — transmitting  a 
full  description  of  that  beautiful  moonlight  night  which 
her  lately  blinded  eyes  failed  her  in  the  seeing. 

Julia  again  looked  at  Alverstone,  but  this  time  she 
looked  for  the  effect  of  the  beautiful  sonata  upon  the 
musical  sense  of  her  friend.  Yes,  she  saw  he  had  been 
touched,  and  deeply,  too.  He  did  not  seem  to  overcome 

89 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

his  absorption,  though  the  hum  of  voices  was  general 
as  before,  for  his  absorption  was  thorough. 

Julia  addressed  him  with  the  question,  "You  are 
fond  of  the  Monsieur  Dedireaux's  art?" 

"Ah,  that  is"— 

"My  dear  Miss  Pembroke,"  nervously  exclaimed  Lady 
Trent,  suddenly  breaking  in  upon  them,  "Madame  la 
Princesse  de  Grancourt  wishes  to  meet  you."  Then  low- 
ering her  voice  so  that  only  Julia  heard,  she  went  on 
quickly:  "Her  son  is  a  great  friend  of  the  impresario  at 
Covent  Garden,  London,  and  the  Princess  herself  is  a 
great  patron  of  your  art." 

"I  have  often  heard  of  the  Princesse  de  Grancourt," 
said  Julia. 

"Have  you  reference  to  the  Duke  de  Grancourt?" 
asked  Alverstone. 

"You  know  him,  do  you  ?"  inquired  Lady  Trent. 

"Oh,  yes;  very  well.  I  met  him  and  the  Duchess  at 
Biarritz." 

"How  pleasant!   You  must  meet  him  in  Paris." 

"Is  he  here  now?"  asked  Alverstone. 

"No,  only  the  Princess  is  here;  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  are  on  the  Riviera.  They  are  like  my  brother 
and  sister;  they  are  afraid  of  the  winters  in  Paris;  but 
the  Duke  comes  here  soon  to  remain  a  few  days." 

"Ah,  I  see,"  returned  Alverstone. 

"Pardon,  Monsieur  Alverstone,  but  you  will  excuse 
us ;  the  Princess  is  waiting." 

Alverstone  bowed  his  pleasure  in  granting  Lady 
Trent's  request,  though  inwardly  he  felt  displeasure  at 
losing  Julia. 

Lady  Trent,  with  Julia  on  her  arm,  passed  out  of 
the  music  room. 

Alverstone  was  recalled  from  his  quiet  musing  by 
a  cheery  voice  saying:  "Why  this  deep  absorption?" 

90 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

Alverstone  turned.    "Ah,  Trent;  I  am  music  struck." 

Perhaps  this  was  so.    Who  knows  ? 

"Then  let  me  introduce  you  to  Madame  Cinati,"  said 
Trent. 

"I  should  be  glad  indeed  to  know  her." 

Madame  Cinati  received  him  cordially,  greeting  him 
as  she  always  did  Americans — as  fortunate,  indeed,  that 
they  were  born  in  that  glorious  country,  "the  name  of 
which,"  she  said,  "means  opportunity." 

Alverstone  was  much  elated  with  the  treatment 
shown  him  by  Madame  Cinati,  for  well  he  knew  that 
the  guardian  of  every  beautiful  voice  jealously  guards 
that  voice  and  its  possessor  as  well,  from  every  possible 
danger,  and  danger  may  be  scented  in  each  new  arrival 
within  the  circle  of  friends. 

Madame  Cinati  had  assisted  Julia  because  she  felt 
that  she  had  found  a  star,  and,  in  the  words  of  a  great 
teacher  in  Europe,  Madame  Cinati  could  say:  "I  am  an 
artist;  I  care  nothing  for  money." 

"I  think,"  said  Madame  Cinati,  fastening  her  large 
brown  eyes  upon  Alverstone,  "you  are  one  of  my  friends, 
from  beyond  the  Atlantic.  Am  I  right?" 

"Yes,  Madame  Cinati,  I  belong  there;  but  I  have 
spent  much  time  on  the  Eastern  Continent,"  answered 
Alverstone. 

"You  are  not  from  Chicago,  no?" 

"No,  I  am  a  native  of  New  York  City." 

"Ah !  I  love  your  beautiful  city — I  love  your  vast, 
vast  land — I  love  its  great  free  atmosphere — everything 
there  is  great." 

"Thank  you,  Madame  Cinati;  I  am  glad  you  like 
my  country.  But  you  can  not  help  liking  our  people, 
for  they  love  you." 

"Oh,  yes,  they  love  my  art  much.  Excuse  me,  Mr. 
Alverstone,"  begged  Madame  Cinati,  as  she  turned  from 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Alverstone  to  the  pianist,  who  had  come  up  and  uncon- 
sciously executed  a  delicately  refined  staccato  movement 
upon  her  arm  while  he  spoke. 

"Dear  Madame  Cinati,  you  will  do  me  the  honor  of 
this  number — hear !  The  music  is  sounding,  and  I  fain 
would  tread  the  measures  of  the  dance  with  you." 

Madame  Cinati  laughed  sweetly  and  said:  "It  is  I 
who  would  be  honored,  my  dear  brother  in  art." 

"No— no"— 

"I  beg  pardon,  Monsieur,"  said  the  deep  voice  of  the 
Austrian  Ambassador,  interrupting  the  pianist;  "but  I 
think  we  have  this  number,  do  we  not,  Madame  Cinati  ?" 

Madame  Cinati  bowed  assent,  and,  paying  their  re- 
spects to  the  old  pianist, -the  two  went  off  in  the  direction 
of  the  ballroom,  leaving  the  old  man,  with  the  godlike 
head,  looking  after  them,  mentally  pronouncing  them  a 
"noble  pair,"  and  wondering  if  he  would  prefer  being  a 
large  and  handsome  man,  like  the  great  statesman,  to 
being  the  little  man  of  emaciation  that  he  was,  with  the 
soul  of  a  pianist,  such  as  he  felt  himself  to  be  and  such 
as  the  world  told  him  he  was.  And  there  were  two  very 
self-satisfied  men  there,  for  neither  would  be  the  other, 
if  he  could  be. 

While  Alverstone  had  stood  smiling  at  the  group,  he 
heard  nothing  of  what  they  had  said,  for  he  had  seen 
only  Madame  Cinati,  and  was  lost  to  all  but  the  love 
story  which  Etienne  Nevere,  the  flutist  and  artist,  had 
told  him  of  himself  and  Madame  Cinati.  And  Alver- 
stone shuddered  at  the  thought  that  a  similar  love  story 
might  be  that  of  his  own,  with  the  difference  that  Julia 
Pembroke  would  be  the  heroine  of  the  latter. 

Alverstone's  reverie  had  been  broken  off  by  the  pic- 
ture of  Madame  Cinati  bowing  her  adieus  to  trie  admiring 
group  around  her,  while  to  the  old  pianist  she  was  mak- 
ing a  most  deferential  courtesy. 

92 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

Their  departure  for  the  ballroom  had  made  him 
recall  that  he  had  not  made  Julia  his  partner  for  this 
dance,  so  he  turned  to  find  her.  He  supposed  she  must 
be  near,  in  this  salon,  where  he  had  seen  her  with  *he 
Princesse  de  Grancourt,  for  whom  she  had  left  him. 

Not  seeing  her  in  a  general  survey,  he  turned  to  go 
out  of  the  salon,  to  make  a  further  search,  when  a  hand 
was  laid  on  his  arm  in  a  manner  that  said,  "Allow  me 
to  detain  you." 

He  turned  and  looked  into  the  eyes  of  Madame 
Nitolsk.  He  recoiled  a  little,  but  she  did  not  see  it.  She 
looked  more  like  a  dream  vision  than  a  real  person, 
and  if  she  was  a  beautiful  woman  by  daylight,  to-night 
she  was  the  most  beautiful  dark  woman  at  the  soiree. 
A  creature  that  seemed  to  have  been  formed  at  night, 
in  a  magic  moon-spell,  under  a  starlit  sky;  for  her 
step  had  stolen  the  silence  of  the  night;  her  eyes  had 
caught  that  soft  reflection  of  the  distant  stars ;  her 
breath  had  sucked  the  perfume  of  the  flowers ;  her  move- 
ment had  caught  the  rhythm  of  the  wind,  but  her  mind 
had  gathered  the  narcotics  of  the  night-dug  plants.  She 
was  a  very  beautiful  woman.  Every  one  who  saw  her 
declared  that. 

She  wore  a  rare  creation  of  turquoise  satin,  spangled 
tulle  and  gold  lace.  The  dress  proper  was  tightly  fit 
and  of  turquoise  satin,  and  showed  the  round  but  deli- 
cate symmetry  of  the  lithe  form.  There  was  a  gold  lace 
bodice  that  fit  like  a  bolero  over  the  deep  chest.  It  had 
the  form  of  two  immense  butterflies.  And  the  fine  gold 
of  its  threads  was  as  delicate  as  the  filament  of  a  cob- 
web ;  from  the  end  of  this  bolero  hung  the  star-shot 
tulle.  It  covered  the  long  court  train,  but  it  did  not 
entirely  hide  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  shell-colored 
blue.  This  gauze  cover  did  not  fall  over  the  front  of 
the  gown ;  it  only  came  to  the  side  of  the  bolero,  for  the 

93 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

costume  was  a  mixture  of  two  styles.  It  had  a  Princess 
front  and  an  Empire  back. 

It  was  one  of  those  creations  which  clings  to  all  the 
sensuous  curves  of  the  form,  yet  half  conceals  them  with 
some  transparent  yet  misty  fabric,  which  makes  the  hid- 
den curve  thrice  lovelier  than  it  really  is. 

The  entire  tulle  cover  was  sewed  with  Oriental  pearls, 
and  here  and  there  it  was  caught  with  rubies.  The  dress 
came  to  a  point  at  both  front  and  back,  and  the  pretty 
curve  of  the  full  shoulders  and  the  smooth  perfection 
of  the  chest  were  exposed.  The  shapely  arms  were  also 
bare,  and  a  band  of  dull  gold,  encrusted  all  over  with 
rubies,  encircled  one  arm  just  above  the  elbow,  and 
there  were  also  many  jeweled  rings  which  adorned  her 
small  fingers.  She  wore  a  ruby  plastron  which  covered 
the  entire  front  of  the  bodice.  The  red  of  the  gems 
matched  well  with  the  beauty  of  the  skin,  for  Madame 
Nitolsk  was  a  very  dark  woman.  Her  skin  had  that 
deep  olive  tinge  which  makes  the  eyes  larger  and  more 
lustrous  than  they  really  are.  Her  hair  was  blue  black, 
straight  and  very  soft.  It  did  not  have  a  mourning 
sheen  as  hair  of  that  color  often  has,  for  when  she  stood 
where  a  soft  light  fell  on  it,  which  she  often  did,  there 
was  a  burnished  shimmering  all  over  it.  But  whatever 
this  light  came  from,  it  enhanced  her  loveliness,  and  she 
knew  it.  It  gave  warmth  to  the  colorless  cheek,  and  it 
seemed  to  light  lamps  in  her  languorous  eyes,  which  the 
heavy,  curving  lashes  so  often  almost  concealed. 

They  were  large  eyes,  with  dull  black  orbs  that 
hung  heavily  from  their  lids.  They  had  many  expres- 
sions. They  often  were  inert  and  oppressively  steady, 
but  more  often  they  were  restless  and  seemed  searching 
for  something. 

The  nose  was  small,  straight,  delicate,  and  the  nostrils 
were  sensitive  and  high-bred. 

94 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Her  mouth  was  small  and  finely  cut,  though  the  lower 
lip  was  fuller  at  the  middle  than  would  follow  in  propor- 
tion to  its  upper.  , 

There  was  nothing  in  part  striking  about  this  beau- 
tiful face — it  was  too  perfect. 

A  La  Valliere  was  around  her  throat,  and  half  cut 
the  sinuous  forward  turn  of  the  neck  where  it  joined  the 
body. 

The  marked  level  brow,  the  placid  forehead,  the 
roundness  of  the  small  chin  on  either  side  of  the  point, 
where  it  should  have  been  oval,  showed  the  fierce,  sullen 
determination  of  her  nature. 

She  was  about  medium  height,  but  the  winding  grace 
of  her  movements  and  the  cautiousness  of  her  gait  made 
her  appear  taller  than  she  really  was.  There  was  fas- 
cination in  the  walk;  there  was  captivation  in  the  form 
and  features,  and  there  was  allurement  in  the  sweet,  low 
voice. 

Often  the  deep  color  would  rise  to  her  cheek,  and  the 
salmon  of  her  lips  would  become  a  creamy  pink  and 
the  heavy  orbs  would  dilate.  But  this  was  rarely.  This 
was  when  vital  emotions  stirred  her,  and  the  world 
never  guessed  these  great  interior  tempests. 

She  was  a  masker,  for  ever  since  she  had  entered  her 
teens  jealousy  had  come  as  an  echo  to  the  voice  of  love, 
and  she  was  now  five-and-twenty.  She  was  a  cunning, 
artful  creature — a  brain  capable  of  dark  deeds  and  willing 
to  perpetrate  them;  a  soulless  beauty;  a  flower  of  the 
Datura. 

She  took  him  coquettishly  by  the  arm,  and  with  a 
lithe,  sinuous  motion,  bent  her  head  in  front  of  him,  so 
that  the  large  black  eyes  flashed  the  fire  of  her  desire 
fully  into  his  sickened  soul. 

"You  are  not  dancing,"  she  began,  importunately;  "I 

95 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

am  not  dancing."  Then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  she 
added:  "Why  not?" 

There  was  another  pause,  and  then  the  deep,  sweet 
voice  went  on  again,  and  there  was  a  silver  ripple  in  its 
rhythm. 

"Let  us  join  the  happy  dancers." 

Alverstone  had  no  excuse,  aside  from  a  flat  refusal, 
and  this  he  was  far  too  gentlemanly  to  offer ;  so  they  went 
and  were  soon  whirling  as  though  all  was  joyous  and 
bright  with  this  Hampton  Alverstone  and  his  clinging 
partner  of  the  waltz. 

Several  times  during  the  dance  Alverstone  saw  Julia 
and  Trent.  They  made  a  beautiful  picture — the  fair- 
haired  creature  in  her  dress  of  spotless  purity,  while 
Lieutenant  Trent,  in  his  gay  uniform,  which  added  much 
to  the  well-disciplined  body,  looked  a  bulwark  of  protec- 
tion for  innocence  so  angelic.  How  could  Trent  but 
adore  her !  Yes,  those  eyes  of  his  were  filled  with  some- 
thing more  than  friendly  regard,  but  Alverstone  could 
not  find  fault  with  Trent,  for  to  Alverstone  she  was  the 
most  superior  of  women,  and  any  good  man  would  be 
likely  to  know  this. 

Once  as  they  flit  by  him  he  saw  a  happy  light  in  Julia's 
eye  when  she  looked  over  the  shoulder  of  Lieutenant 
Trent  at  him.  She  had  smiled  at  Alverstone,  but  for  an 
instant,  for  the  glide  of  the  mazy  waltz  had  carried  her 
away  into  the  whirl  of  dancers,  off  out  of  sight  of  the 
man  to  whose  existence  she  had  become  a  necessity. 

How  strange  are  the  immutable  complexities  attend- 
ant upon  life ! 

He  had  given  her  only  a  glance,  but  in  that  most 
wonderful  thing  in  the  world — a  glance — she  had  seen 
his  soul's  outpouring  for  her — to  her. 

No,  he  could  not  think  of  Julia  Pembroke  as  the  wife 
of  any  one  but  of  himself. 

96 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

"Who  is  that  young  woman  with  Lieutenant  Trent?" 
asked  Madame  Nitolsk.  "Their  odd  English  manners 
are  pleasing,  though  they  amuse  me  at  the  same  time. 
I  see  they  are  very  fond  of  each  other — very,  very, 
indeed." 

"She  is  not  English;  she  is  American,"  said  Alver- 
stone,  with  just  a  shade  of  the  piquancy  which  he  felt. 

"Indeed !  and  where  has  she  her  setting,  a  member  of 
the  American  Embassy?" 

"No,  she  is  a  student  of  song — a  very  promising 
soprano,  I  am  told,  of  Signer  Novara." 

"The  celebrated  maestro?"  again  asked  Madame 
Nitolsk. 

"Yes,  he  is  her  maitre." 

"Ah,  indeed !  I  am  quite  interested  in  song  myself. 
I  think  I  should  like,  to  know  this  young  woman." 

This  she  said  not  because  of  any  genuine  feeling  she 
might  have  had  for  the  song  student  in  question,  but  for 
the  reason  that  she  had  seen  the  soul-flit  of  Alverstone 
as  he  cast  his  quick  glance  at  the  mass  of  gold  appearing 
above  the  shoulder  of  Lieutenant  Reginald  Trent,  when 
the  face  of  Julia  Pembroke,  glowing  with  the  exhilaration 
of  health  and  happiness,  smiled  the  greeting  in  which 
the  animated  blue  eyes  had  performed  an  engaging  part. 

Instantaneous  as  was  the  glance  of  Alverstone,  it  had 
not  escaped  the  quicker  eyes  of  the  young  widow — 
Madame  Nitolsk.  And  she,  with  the  intuition  of  her  sex, 
at  once  scented  danger — a  possible  rival  in  the  affections 
of  Hampton  Alverstone. 

"However,  that  does  not  prevent  Lieutenant  Trent 
from  adoring  her,  something  I  see  he  does,"  remarked 
Madame  Nitolsk. 

The  prompting  motive  for  this  remark  was  that  she 
might  note  the  effect  upon  her  partner  of  the  waltz. 

97 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

For  her  pains  she  saw  nothing,  but  she  heard:  "You 
think  Lieutenant  Trent  adores  her?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  You  see,  a  woman  needs  very  little 
assistance  in  matters  requiring  nice  points  of  detection, 
for  woman  is  guided  mostly  by  intuition."  And  she 
followed  her  assertion  by  a  deep,  rich-voiced  ha !  ha !  ha ! 

"I  think  that  young  woman  too  fond  of  her  own 
country  to  marry  a  foreigner,"  returned  Alverstone. 

"These  singers  are  not  always  steady.  They  mean 
well,  but  their  emotions  often  carry  them  far  away  from 
that  which  they  would  pronounce  their  ideal,"  retorted 
Madame  Nitolsk. 

"No  doubt  that  is  true  at  times ;  but,"  objected  Alver- 
stone, "I  beg  to  differ  from  you  there,  for  I  have  known 
many  singers  whose  ideals  have  been  of  the  highest  and 
who  have  never  been  guilty  of  a  violation  of  them." 

"Ah!  indeed!  I  fear  me  Monsieur  Alverstone  is  a 
lover  of  some  beautiful  songstress.  Is  it  not  true?" 

"Pardon,  Madame ;  but  a  wise  man  always  keeps  his 
own  counsel." 

"Oh,  pshaw !  now  you  are  in  love,  I  know." 

Alverstone  laughed  lightly,  and  the  dance  finishing 
just  then,  they  went  slowly  from  the  ballroom. 

When  Julia  had  danced  four  dances,  one  with  Trent, 
the  next  with  the  Prince  di  Pastanni,  the  third  with  a 
French  officer,  the  fourth  with  the  English  Ambassador, 
she  found  herself  for  the  fifth  again  with  Trent. 

She  was  tired  and  hot,  and  so  said:  "You  have 
danced  the  last  four  dances  and  so  have  I.  Let  us  go 
into  the  conservatory  and  rest  this  dance." 

"Anything  you  suggest,  Miss  Pembroke,"  graciously 
accorded  Trent.  "Anything  will  please  me,  just  so  I 
spend  the  time  with  you." 

Julia  looked  up  quickly  at  him,  for,  knowing  as  she 

98 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

did  his  high  rank  in  the  English  realm  and  the  known 
position  of  herself  in  the  social  world,  she  wondered  what 
she  should  infer  from  his  remark.  But  he  was  a  soldier, 
and  his  face  was  not  easily  readable.  He  knew  just  how 
to  deport  himself  suitably  upon  every  occasion.  He  was 
gay,  frank,  versatile,  and  had  been  long  enough  in  the 
Orient  to  be  what  woman  would  pronounce  "winningly 
chivalrous." 

In  the  dimly  lighted  conservatory  they  found  a  delight- 
ful retreat  'and  seated  themselves  to  chat. 

"Do  you  like  Paris?"  asked  Trent.  "No,  I  should 
assert  that  you  like  Paris,  for  every  one  who  comes  to 
Paris  once  is  sure  to  come  again." 

"Yes,  I  am  pleased  with  Paris,  but  I  have  never  trav- 
eled, and  so  am  not  capable  of  making  comparisons.  I 
know  little  of  Paris  in  general,  for  my  studies  have  kept 
me  close." 

"Your  maestro  is  exacting,  I  suppose." 

"Oh,  no;  quite  the  contrary.  One  learns  easily  and 
well  with  my  master,  as  much  or  more  by  accretion  as 
by  direct  teaching.  I  'adore  my  master;  he  is  a  great 
man." 

Julia  said  this,  and  looked  so  abstracted  that  Trent 
knew  she  felt  what  she  had  said.  Then  he  added : 

"Every  one  knows  that  a  student  going  through 
Signer  Novara's  school — finishing  to  the  maestro's  satis- 
faction— must  be  great." 

"Thank  you,  Lieutenant  Trent.  I  have  so  great  confi- 
dence in  the  master  that  I  take  this  praise  as  a  personal 
compliment." 

"Take  it,  then,  and  remember  that  his  fame  alone  will 
make  you  win  laurels." 

"Thank  you  again;  I  hope  so — for  laurels  I  want, 
and  as  many  as  I  deserve." 

Hearing  footsteps  approaching,  Julia  looked  up  and 

99 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

saw  Alverstone  with  the  beautiful  woman  whom  she  had 
seen  as  his  partner  of  the  first  dance.  She  thought  it 
must  be  some  one  of  whom  he  was  very  fond,  or  else 
they  had  done  similarly  as  had  she  and  Trent — found 
themselves  together  again  after  several  dances. 

While  they  were  at  some  little  distance  she  asked,  in 
a  low  voice:  "Who  is  that  beautiful  woman  with  your 
friend,  Mr.  Alverstone?" 

Trent  turned  and  glanced  in  the  direction  in  which 
Julia  had  looked. 

"That,"  said  he,  "is  Madame  Nitolsk— a  widow." 

"She  is  not  French?" 

"No,  I  think  not;  her  husband  was  a  banker  in  Cal- 
cutta, India.  He  was  fabulously  wealthy." 

"Where  does  she  belong,  in  Paris?" 

"You  mean,  where  she  has  her  holding  in  society?" 

"No,  not  that;  to  find  her  a  guest  in  this  mansion 
to-night  is  sufficient  recommendation.  I  meant  to  ask 
where  she  lives." 

But  Trent  had  not  time  to  answer,  for  they  had  come 
quite  near,  and  he  turned  and  addressed  them  with  the 
question:  "Is  this  dance  over?" 

When  Alverstone  saw  Julia  and  Trent  there  in  that 
out-of-the-way  corner,  he  tried  to  lead  Madame  Nitolsk 
by  another  path,  hoping  to  keep  her  from  seeing  what 
he  knew  would  cause  her  to  offer  a  comment  in  confirma- 
tion of  what  she  had  said  when  she  had  seen  Julia  smile 
at  him  in  the  dance. 

But  Madame  Nitolsk  seemed  to  divine  his  inten- 
tions, and,  without  giving  him  the  slightest  hint  of  the 
same,  held  him  to  the  path  which  led  past  Julia  and 
Trent. 

Alverstone  was  annoyed  at  finding  himself  before  his 
old  friend  Trent,  with  Julia  happy  and  contented  by  his 
side;  but  Madame  Nitolsk  was  in  a  rapture  of  delight, 

100 


AN   AMERICAN    SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

for  she  saw  Alverstone's  annoyance  as  well  as  his  cha- 
grin over  the  turn  affairs  had  taken. 

She  told  herself  that  the  young  singer  held  Mr.  Alver- 
stone  by  a  chain  not  easily  parted. 

"Introduce  me  to  your  friend,  Lieutenant  Trent," 
said  Madame  Nitolsk.  I  have  admired  her  from  afar, 
and  now  I  would  come  nearer,  if  I  may.  Mr.  Alver- 
stone  tells  me  you  are  an  American,"  said  Madame 
Nitolsk,  as  soon  as  the  introduction  was  over. 

"Yes,  I  am  an  American." 

"New  York?" 

"No,  I  am  a  native  of  Cincinnati. 

"Indeed,  is  that  place  near  New  York?"  asked  Mad- 
ame Nitolsk,  this  time  addressing  Alverstone. 

"About  a  day's  distance  by  rail,"  he  replied,  for, 
without  looking  at  his  interlocutor,  he  felt  the  force  of 
her  raillery.  He  knew  she  scarcely  heard  what  was  said 
in  answer  to  her  question  put,  and  that  she  was  pleased 
in  his  finding  Julia  and  Trent  in  this  secluded  nook, 
where  only  the  most  searching  eye  might  be  able  to  see 
them. 

"I  saw  you  come  in  with  Madame  Cinati,  and  Mr. 
Alverstone  tells  me  you  are  very  dear  friends." 

"Yes,  we  are,"  replied  Julia,  smiling. 

"Are  you  studying  for  a  like  career ?" 

"I  hope  to  sing  as  a  lyric  soprano,  but  I  am  not  quite 
sure  that  I  can  ever  have  a  career  such  as  that  of  Madame 
Cinati." 

"One.  can  not  tell  what  one  can  do  until  one  has  tried 
one's  wings,"  further  observed  Madame  Nitolsk. 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  coincided  Julia. 

"She  sings  like  Madame  Cinati  now,"  said  Trent. 
smiling  down  at  the  two  women,  for  he  had  given  his 
seat  to  Madame  Nitolsk,  and  the  two  men  stood  before 
them. 

101 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"Oh!  and  Madame  Cinati  sings — how  shall  I  say?" 
asked  Madame  Nitolsk. 

"I  think  I  can  not  assist  you  with  an  unbiased  judg- 
ment," replied  Julia,  "for,  first  of  all,  the  lyric  soprano 
is  my  voice,  and  I  know  its  possibilities  and  can  appre- 
ciate the  real  merit  such  a  voice  has ;  then  I  am  an  ardent 
lover  of  the  Madame  Cinati  herself,  aside  from  her  artis- 
tic personality." 

"Now  let  me  say  a  word,  my  friends,"  said  Trent,  in- 
a  mimic  petitionary  voice. 

Each  assented  by  a  bow  of  the  head,  and  Trent  went 
on: 

"Miss  Pembroke  will  be  the  successor  of  Madame 
Cinati." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Julia,  "to  say  it,  but  much 
kinder  to  think  it.  I  shall  try  to  please  you  all  when 
I  do  sing." 

"When  do  you  make  your  debut?"  asked  Madame 
Nitolsk. 

"A  year  from  this  Christmas.  At  least  I  hope  to 
sing  then." 

"Ah !  I  shall  be  there,"  replied  Madame  Nitolsk. 

"And  I,"  said  Alverstone. 

"I  wish  I  could  add  another  'I/  but  I  am  not  likely 
to  be  able  to  be  there." 

"You  will  try  to  come,  will  you  not?"  asked  Julia, 
looking  at  him,  her  eyes  lingering  upon  his  face  far 
longer,  Alverstone  thought,  than  was  necessary;  and, 
too,  he  thought  Trent  purposely,  for  the  pleasure  her 
sweet,  questioning  smile  gave  him,  delayed  the  answer 
for  which  she  waited. 

"I  shall  certainly  endeavor  to  be  there,"  answered 
Trent. 

She  smiled  a  satisfaction  with  the  answer,  then  car- 
ried her  eyes  from  the  face  of  Trent  down  to  the  little 

1 02 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

white  fan  which  she  held  in  her  hand,  and  Madame 
Nitolsk  looked  provokingly  tantalizing  as  she  gazed  hard 
and  steadily  at  Alver stone,  who  understood  perfectly  just 
what  Madame  Nitolsk  meant  by  it  all.  He  knew  she  was 
asking  him  in  the  language  of  that  gaze  what  he  thought 
of  that?  And  if  he  thought  her  intuition  was  not  worth 
a  reckoning,  when 'she  had  told  him  that  the  American 
girl  and  the  English  officer  were  fond  of  each  other? 

"Madame  Cinati's  voice  has  the  flutelike  quality — 
has  Mademoiselle  Pembroke's  the  same?"  asked  Madame 
Nitolsk,  looking  first  at  one  and  then  at  the  other  of  the 
two  men  before  her. 

"I  think  so,"  said  Trent. 

"I  can  not  say,"  added  Alverstone,  "for  I  have  not 
yet  had  the  good  fortune  to  hear  Miss  Pembroke  sing." 

"Maestro  Novara  employs  a  flutist  to  accompany  me 
when  I  am  finishing  my  arias  and  songs,"  said  Julia. 

"Indeed !"  exclaimed  Madame  Nitolsk.  "I  wonder  if 
that  would  not  lead  one  to  imitate  the  flute." 

"I  think  it  would,"  replied  Julia. 

"Who  is  your  flutist?  I  am  very  fond  of  the  flute." 

This  Madame  Nitolsk  asked  for  the  simple  reason  that 
she  wished  to  know  another  who  was  one  in  Julia's  world. 
She  knew  it  would  strengthen  her  cause  to  know  all 
whose  influence  in  any  way  would  affect  Julia's  life. 

"Monsieur  Nevere,"  replied  Julia. 

"Monsieur  Nevere?"  asked  Trent.  "Why,  he  is  a 
portrait  painter." 

"Oh,  no,  surely  not,"  returned  Julia;  "for  he  plays 
in  the  orchestra  of  the  Opera." 

"Impossible!"  rejoined  Madame  Nitolsk,  who  was 
known  to  use  as  many  interjections  as  she  had  exclama- 
tions during  an  evening.  Indeed,  she  had  so  much  delight 
in  the  use  of  these  interjections  that  those  who  knew  her 
best  were  pronounced  in  their  assertions  that  she  had 

103 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

been  known — by  a  wag  who  took  pains  to  find  out — to 
begin  each  evening  with  the  first  interjection  in  the  list 
of  an  English  grammar  and  to  use  them  in  their  order 
on  each  occasion  she  had  need  of  an  interjection,  which 
was  often.  "Etienne  Nevere  is  a  portrait  painter  of 
great  renown,  for  I  have  known  him  for,  lo !  these  many 
years.  Four  years  ago  he  painted  my  portrait." 

"Now  I  beg  to  add  a  word,"  laughed  Alverstone,  for 
he  was  much  amused  over  what  he  was  pleased  to  term 
a  comedy  of  errors,  though  not  exactly  like  that  of 
Shakespeare — nevertheless  a  comedy  of  errors — though 
in  Shakespeare's  comedy  tnere  are  two  men  for  one  situa- 
tion, while  in  this  comedy  there  is  one  man  for  two  situa- 
tions. 

"I  have  visited  his  studio,  and  he  told  me  that  he  is 
flutist  at  the  Opera  and  for  Maestro  Novara  and  some 
others,  for  whom  he  enjoys  playing." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Trent,  carrying  his  left  hand  with 
the  movement  which  would  lay  it  upon  the  hilt  of  his 
sword — a  movement  which  makes  of  a  military  man  a 
hero — a  god  in  action — but  the  hand  found  not  its  sup- 
port, and  went  below  the  point  where  it  would  have 
rested  had  it  not  been  the  custom  for  the  hostess  to  say 
to  each  officer  in  the  full  dress  of  his  rank,  "Lay  down 
your  arms." 

"There !"  exclaimed  Madame  Nitolsk,  rising  and  tak- 
ing the  arm  of  Alverstone ;  "hear  that  beautiful  waltz ;" 
for  floating  out  from  the  ballroom  came  the  entrancing 
strains  of  a  waltz,  and  she  had  taken  it  for  granted  that 
she  and  Alverstone  would  dance  it  together.  "I  know 
so  few  persons  here,  and  I  am  in  danger  of  becoming 
lonely.  We  will  dance?" 

It  was  her  hope  in  this  way  to  keep  him  from  Julia 
Pembroke,  for  she  was  certain  he  would  ask  the  Ameri- 
can for  this  dance.  She  felt  it  instinctively. 

104 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Alverstone  apologized,  adding :  "I  have  this^  number 
with  Miss  Pembroke." 

Madame  Nitolsk's  black  eyes  flashed  their  angered 
disappointment. 

Trent  saw  it,  but  affected  ignorance.  Then  he  asked 
and  had  permission  to  lead  Madame  Nitolsk  through  the 
waltz  then  playing,  with  the  assurance  from  Madame 
Nitolsk  as  she  took  his  arm  to  move  away:  "The  honor 
of  the  evening  lies  in  a  dance  with  the  brave  English 
officer — Lieutenant  Trent." 

When  they  had  passed  out  of  the  conservatory,  Julia 
said :  "I  am  tired  of  dancing.  If  you  will,  I  should  prefer 
to  sit  here  quietly  and  chat  with  you." 

"As  you  did  with  Trent?"  asked  Alverstone,  laugh- 
ingly, while  he  seated  himself  upon  the  seat  where  Julia 
and  Trent  had  spent  the  time  of  their  waltz. 

"As  you  please,"  replied  Julia.  "We  said  nothing  of 
a  private  nature — all  could  have  been  said  with  you  and 
Madame  Nitolsk  present." 

Julia  looked  at  him  to  see  the  effect,  and  she  was 
pleased,  for  the  happiness  this  bit  of  truth  gave  him 
he  did  not  attempt  to  hide.  He  wished  her  to  see  it. 

"Lieutenant  Trent  is  a  very  interesting  companion," 
remarked  Alverstone,  "for  he  has  a  fund  of  information 
upon  every  subject,  it  would  seem." 

Then  for  a  little  time  both  remained  quiet.  Silence 
reigned  except  for  the  splash  of  falling  water  from  the 
alabaster  fountain  just  to  their  left  and  behind  a  bank 
of  American  Beauty  roses,  for  the  falling  water  of  the 
fountain  made  itself  heard  as  it  mingled  with  the  water 
of  the  basin ;  and,  too,  the  sweet,  alluring  strains  of  the 
Strauss  waltz  stole  gently  through  the  foliage  of  the 
great  tropical  plants,  and  the  hundreds  of  delicately 
scented  flowers  of  every  description,  until  it  reached  the 

105 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

American  man,  seated  beside  the  American  young  woman, 
for  whom  he  entertained  an  experience  of  richest  love. 

"Miss  Pembroke,  there  is  but  one  subject  upon  which 
at  present  I  am  capable  of  speaking  with  you,  and  upon 
that  subject  I  must  speak." 

Julia,  drawing  away  her  hand,  for  which  he  had 
reached,  and  which  he  had  held  for  an  instant,  said:  "Mr. 
Alverstone,  I  beg  of  you  desist;  I  fancy  I  anticipate 
your  intention,  and  I  can  not  allow  you  to  go  further." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked,  in  hurried  breathlessness,  for 
he  could  not  think  that  a  young  woman  such  as  her 
straightforwardness  had  made  him  feel  her  to  be  would 
have  encouraged  him  as  she  had  done  were  she  the  fiancee 
of  some  other  man.  And  Alverstone  felt  free  to  continue 
in  the  declaration  of  which  he  was  determined  to  acquit 
himself,  at  this  moment,  if  possible,  for  Hampton  Alver- 
stone was  not  a  man  of  faint  heart  whenever  he  chose 
to  perform  an  act,  and  he  had  not  pursued  this  idol  of 
his  love  dream,  hoping  to  find  a  favorable  moment  in 
which  to  tell  all,  now  to  allow  himself  to  be  repulsed 
by  the  first  adverse  volley — no,  indeed,  not  he! 

"Miss  Pembroke,  I  love  you  most  passionately." 

Julia  put  up  her  hand  in  a  desistory  manner  and 
turned  her  face  slowly  away. 

From  the  deliberation  of  this  movement  of  Julia, 
Alverstone  took  courage  to  proceed,  for,  though  he  had 
met  with  strong  rebuff,  he  began  in  a  most  supplicatory 
manner:  "My  love  you  must  requite,  Miss  Pembroke. 
You  and  I  are  Americans  of  the  same  rank,  and  in  our 
own  land  we  shall  be  far  happier  together  than  you  can 
possibly  be  as  a  prima  donna — listen  to  me,  listen  to 
me,  and  say  that  you  will  be  mine."  Again  he  reached 
for  her  hand,  and  now  raised  it,  in  the  act  of  pressing  it 
to  his  lips ;  but  Julia  drew  it  away  and  put  up  both  her 
hands,  quite  dramatically  saying:  "Do,  not,  do  not." 

1 06 


"  'FROM  THAT  MOMENT  WHEN  i  WAS  PERMITTED  AN  HONORABLE  INTRODUCTION 

TO  YOU — TO  YOU — THE   ONLY  WOMAN   I   HAVE  EVER  LOVED.'  " 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Alverstone  seemed  to  see  nothing.  For,  heedless  of 
any  protestation  upon  the  part  of  Julia,  he  continued: 
"Then  think  of  what  I  am  saying,  and  at  some  future 
time,  after  a  period  of  careful  reflection,  give  me  your 
decision.  But,  Miss  Pembroke,  do  not  forget  to  consider 
that  I  fell  in  love  with  you  the  first  time  I  saw  you,  and 
that  was  when  I  handed  you  the  music  which  you  dropped 
on  Rue  Murillo;  that  I  followed  you  to  London,  soon 
after,  crossing  the  Channel  on  the  same  boat  with  you; 
that  I  sat  at  the  table  in  Hotel  Cecil,  at  London,  just 
where  I  did  and  in  the  position  in  which  I  did  in  order 
that  you  must  see  me,  for  I  asked  the  chef  to  place  me 
there;  that  at  the  opera,  during  the  singing  of  Caruso 
and  Melba  at  Covent  Garden,  I  sat  where  I  feasted  my 
eyes  upon  you ;  that  I  followed  you  back  to  Paris,  hoping 
to  see  you  in  the  Paris  Opera,  where  I  knew  Madame 
Cinati  would  sing  on  last  evening,  for,  finding  you  a 
table  companion  of  hers  at  Hotel  Cecil,  I  thought  you 
would  be  present  when  the  Madame  would  sing  here; 
that  when  I  saw  you  a  guest  in  the  box  with  my  friend, 
Lieutenant  Trent,  I  saw  the  connecting  link  in  the  chain 
of  fortunate  circumstances  leading  to  an  acquaintance 
with  you;  that  I  fled  from  my  seat  in  the  orchestra  to 
meet  Trent  on  the  staircase  as  he  was  descending.  From 
that  moment,  when  I  was  permitted  an  honorable  intro- 
duction to  you — to  you — the  only  woman  I  have  ever 
loved,  you  know  the  rest,  and,  though  it  is  only  some 
little  more  than  twenty-four  hours  since  that  introduction, 
I  can  not  forego  this  opportunity  of  declaring  my  undying 
love  for  you." 

He  ceased  .speaking  and  sat  looking  into  Julia's  face 
with  a  fixed  gaze  that  seemed  to  draw  from  her  an 
answer  in  the  affirmative. 

Julia  had  been  deeply  moved,  as  much  by  the  pathos 
of  his  eloquent  pleading  and  the  touching  story  of  his 

107 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

endeavor  to  find  a  right  moment  of  presenting  himself 
as  by  the  wealth  of  love,  the  natural  sequence  of  his 
manly  nature,  stirred  by  that  powerful  emotion  for  one 
whom  he  wished  to  call  his  wife. 

She  had  sat  very  quiet  during  the  entire  time  of  his 
speaking — perfectly  quiet — with  eyes  downcast  upon  the 
dainty  little  fan,  which  she  had  moved  gently  to  and  fro 
the  while. 

She  sat  so  pensively  quiet  during  the  silence  follow- 
ing Alverstone's  cessation  that  this,  together  with  a  slight 
nervousness  betrayed  by  her  fingering  of  the  delicate  gold 
chain  to  which  her  fan  was  attached,  gave  Alverstone 
hope  that  he  had  not  pleaded  in  vain,  so  he  began  his 
conclusion  with,  "I  beg  of  you,  bear  constantly  in  mind 
that  Hampton  Alverstone  loves  Julia  Pembroke,  and 
wishes  to  make  her  his  right,  his  honorable  wife.  Will 
you"— 

"Pardon,  my  friends/'  said  an  excited  voice,  coming 
upon  them ;  "have  you  seen  Madame  Nitolsk  pass  ?" 

"No,  we  have  not,"  replied  Alverstone. 

"I  wonder  if  you  would  ?"  again  asked  Trent,  looking 
from  one  to  the  other,  roguishly.  "For  two  Americans  to 
sit  in  this  secluded  spot  so  long  means  some  interest  in 
each  other.  I  fear  you  might  not  have  seen  any  one." 

Julia  looked  up  at  Trent  and  smiled.  But  the  warmth 
of  Alverstone's  emotion  did  not  escape  the  quick  eye  of 
Trent. 

"What  are  you  doing  with  that  wine?"  asked  Alver- 
stone, quickly,  not  allowing  time  for  Trent  to  say  more. 

"It  is  for  Madame  Nitolsk,  but  I  can  not  find  her." 

"Where  did  you  leave  her?  I  thought  you  were  in 
this  dance." 

"We  were,"  said  Trent ;  "but  Madame  Nitolsk  wished 
to  rest." 

"Is  she  ill?"  again  asked  Julia. 

108 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"She  said  she  felt  faint,  and  I  went  to  fetch  her  this 
wine." 

"Let  us  go  search,"  suggested  Julia. 

After  a  thorough  search,  when  they  had  about  decided 
that  she  must  have  left  the  conservatory,  Julia,  who  had 
gone  around  what  was  another  secluded  nook  like  that 
in  which  she  and  Alverstone  had  been  sitting,  came  upon 
Madame  Nitolsk. 

"Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  here  is  Madame  Nitolsk.  She  is 
dead !"  cried  Julia,  in  a  voice  of  horror. 

"No,  she  has  only  fainted,"  said  Trent,  coming  near 
and  with  his  left  hand  lifting  her  head,  while  he  held 
the  wine  to  her  lips. 

She  was  seated  upon  one  of  the  chairs,  and  her  head 
had  fallen  to  one  side  and  was  resting  against  the  high 
back,  while  the  appearance  of  the  entire  body  was  like 
that  of  one  out  of  which  every  spark  of  life  had  gone. 

"There,  she  is  reviving,"  said  Trent,  as  her  eyes 
opened  and  she  sought  each  face  of  the  eager,  anxious, 
little  group  around  her,  saying:  "It  is  nothing." 

"Miss  Pembroke,"  said  an  attendant,  coming^  up  at 
that  moment,  "I  am  sent  to  say  that  Madame  Cinati  is 
going,  and  that  the  Madame  will  send  the  carriage  for 
Mademoiselle  later." 

"Please  tell  Madame  Cinati  that  I  shall  go  with 
Madame,"  she  replied. 

Then,  taking  Madame  Nitolsk's  hand  between  both 
of  hers,  Julia  pressed  it  tenderly,  saying:  "My  dear 
Madame,  I  am  forced  to  go,  so  I  bid  you  good  night,  and 
I  wish  you  a  speedy  recovery." 

"Thank  you,  dear ;  you  are  a  lovely  girl.  Good-night, 
Miss  Pembroke." 

While  speaking  the  manner  of  Madame  Nitolsk  was 
charming  and  her  voice  low  and  tender.  Not  a  tremor 
of  the  nervous  chill  then  shaking  her  was  visible,  either 

109 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

in  the  touch  of  the  hand  or  in  the  tone  of  her  voice. 
She  opened  her  large  black  eyes  big  and  wide  and  fas- 
tened them  on  Julia,  gazing  all  the  while  with  an  intens- 
ity that  was  fierce,  until  Julia,  not  realizing  just  what  was 
happening,  seemed  electrified,  and  each  woman  looked 
into  the  eyes  of  the  other  woman  until  Alverstone,  who 
was  a  man  versed  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  and  now 
understood  Madame  Nitolsk  and  what  she  was  doing, 
took  Julia  by  the  arm,  saying:  "Miss  Pembroke,  par^ 
don ;  great  prima  donnas  like  Madame  Cinati  are  not 
pleased  to  be  kept  waiting." 

The  spell  was  broken.-  Madame  Nitolsk  closed  her 
eyes,  and  Julia,  still  dazed,  looked  toward  Trent  and  said : 
"Good-night,  Lieutenant  Trent;  I  have  had  a  delightful 
evening."  Then  she  and  Alverstone  walked  away. 

"I  shall  attend  you  to  your  carriage,  if  I  may,"  said 
Alverstone. 

"Thank  you;  it  is  quite  agreeable,  I  assure  you," 
answered  Julia/ 

Together  they  said  good  night  to  the  Lord  and  Lady 
Trent,  and  on  the  way  out  they  passed  numerous  per- 
sons who  knew  and  loved  Julia,  and  who  made  many 
friendly  remarks  concerning  her. 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle  Pembroke,  you  are  not  leaving  so 
soon,"  said  the  Princesse  de  Grancourt,  as  Julia  was  pass- 
ing near  to  the  Princess,  who  was  chatting  gaily  with  a 
French  cavalry  officer  and  his  lady. 

•  "Yes,  Princess;  it  is  the  pleasure  of  Madame  Cinati 
to  go  now,  and  I  go  with  the  Madame." 

"But  the  dance  is  not  over,  and  souper!  What  a  sacri- 
fice of  your  social  pleasures  you  dear,  dear  song-birds 
make !  No  doubt  it  is  wise,  but  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  go." 

This  the  Princesse  de  Grancourt  accompanied  with  the 
prettiest  of  French  manners,  the  sparkling  diamond  star 
in  her  hair  the  while  vying  with  the  sparkling  brilliancy 

no 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

of  her  beautiful  black  eyes,  for  the  Princesse  de  Gran- 
court  was  known  to  have  a  very  handsome  pair  of  eyes. 

Julia  smilingly  bowed,  and  she  and  Alverstone'left 
the  salon  through  a  long  line  of  admirers.  As  they  went 
from  the  Princesse  de  Grancourt,  the  Princess  was  heard 
to  remark  to  the  French  cavalry  officer  and  his  lady  that 
she  was  surprised  beyond  measure  to  know  an  American 
girl  could  be  so  well-bred,  and  when  the  officer  dared 
to  suggest  that  this  advancement  on  the  part  of  Miss 
Pembroke  in  the  matter  of  cultivation  might  be  the  result 
of  her  long  stay  in  Paris,  the  Princess  objected  that 
she  had  little  time  for  manners;  for  those  graces  in 
matters  of  etiquette — savoir-vivre — were  not  learned  in 
a  few  years;  indeed,  they  were  not  learned  at  all,  she 
thought.  And  the  Princess  defended  her  position  with 
the  statement  that  only  through  a  long  line  of  polite 
ancestry  are  the  graces  of  true  cultivation  at  all  possible. 

"But  this  Miss  Pembroke  pleases  you?"  ventured  the 
cavalry  officer,  "and  she  has  been  in  Paris  only  a  few 
years." 

"Yes,  she  does  please  me,  really,  she  does.  I  should 
take  her  for  one  of  the  ladies  of  our  most  exclusive  set." 
Then  she  continued:  "She  is  simply  perfect  in  manners 
and  bearing — all.  I  laughed  when  Lady  Trent  told  me 
that  she  had  a  nice  little  American  girl  who  was  per- 
fectly well-bred  and  whom  she  wished  me  to  know." 

"And  this  little  American  girl  surprised  you?"  again 
asked  the  cavalry  officer,  pleasedly. 

"Yes,  she  did ;  I  found  her  all  Lady  Trent  had  said  of 
her." 

"Ah !  my  dear  Princess,  Americans  have  a  cultivation 
all  their  own,  and  to  enjoy  their  cultivation  one  must  be 
an  American,"  said  the  officer. 

"Well,"  replied  the  Princesse  de  Grancourt,  "I  shall 
never  be  an  American.  I  love  Europe — I  love  my  own 

in 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

France,  and,  above  all,  I  love  our  exclusive  European 
society." 

After  the  partings,  as  are  usual  on  such  occasions, 
the  carriage  passed  quickly  off,  drawn  by  the  splendid 
thoroughbreds,  and  became  one  of  many  dashing  away 
up  Champs  Elysees,  with  the  difference,  however,  that 
within  this  carriage  rode  two  of  those  golden-throated 
songsters,  whom  every  reigning  queen  of  a  realm  can  not 
but  acknowledge  her  superior ;  for  each  queen  reigns  over 
her  own  special  realm,  while  the  song  queen  reigns  over 
all  realms — all  lands — reigns  the  acknowledged  queen  of 
song,  and  song  is  a  universal  language — a  language  of 
the  world — of  the  universe. 

Alverstone  stood  looking  after  the  carriage  until  it 
had  gone  out  of  sight,  then  he  turned  and  reentered  the 
mansion. 

When  Madame  Nitolsk  and  Trent  had  gone  for  the 
waltz  the  Madame  had  suspicioned  that  Julia  and  Alver- 
stone had  not  entered  the  ballroom,  and  she  soon  affected 
fatigue  and  expressed  a  desire  to  go  into  the  conserva- 
tory. She  chose  the  way  that  led  near  the  seat  where  she 
and  Trent  had  left  Julia  and  Alverstone,  and,  hearing 
Alverstone's  voice,  she  soon  decided  on  a  seat  not  far 
from  them,  yet  far  enough  removed  to  keep  them  in 
ignorance  of  their  presence.  Then  she  had  asked  Trent 
to  fetch  her  some  wine. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone  she  crept,  soft-footed  as  a 
panther,  winding  her  sinuous  form  in  and  out  among  the 
plants,  now  stealing  through  banks  of  roses,  now  gliding 
noiselessly  as  a  venomous  serpent  about  to  spring,  until 
within  sufficiently  close  proximity  to  the  loving  pair  in 
their  little  corner — their  retreat  of  bliss — and  then  she 
did  what  her  serpentine  movements  would  warrant  her 
capable  of  doing — peered  through  the  leaves  and  saw — 

112 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

the  guileless  pair — saw  Alverstone  reach  for  Julia's 
hand — saw  Julia  reclaim  that  hand — saw  the  force  of  his 
passionate  love,  and  heard,  as  distinctly  as  if  it  had  been 
meant  for  the  eavesdropper — that  declaration  of  love, 
with  the  preliminaries — his  finding  Julia,  when  he  had 
picked  up  the  music,  and  how  he  had  followed  her — all. 
Nothing  had  escaped  that  hidden  eye  and  hidden  ear,  and 
she  had  felt  the  blow  and  had  staggered  beneath  it. 

She  had  recoiled  within  herself,  to  deliberate,  and 
had  tried  to  retreat,  but  in  her  anger  had  missed  her  way 
and  had  allowed  herself  to  faint,  as  it  seemed  that  she 
might  thus  more  effectually  hide  her  true  condition,  for 
her  agitation  was  uncontrollable.  Julia  had  found  her 
in  this  place  when  she,  Trent  and  Alverstone  had  gone 
in  search  of  her. 

When  Alverstone  was  putting  Julia  carefully  into  the 
carriage  of  Madame  Cinati,  above  on  a  balcony  over- 
looking the  court — just  over  the  massive  stone  arch  of 
the  entrance  way — stood  Madame  Nitolsk.  She  was 
alone,  for  she  had  come  out  upon  the  balcony  just  as 
Julia  and  Alverstone  had  gone  down  the  great  staircase 
leading  into  the  vestibule,  and  she  had  a  morbid  desire 
to  see  the  happy  pair  appear  on  the  pavement,  as  they 
crossed  it,  for  Julia  to  enter  the  carriage. 

Again  the  Fates  were  with  Madame  Nitolsk,  for 
though  she  heard  no  word,  nor  saw  no  grand  strokes, 
she  saw  enough  of  the  pretty  little  attentions,  caressingly 
given,  on  the  part  of  Alverstone,  as  he  carefully  helped 
Julia  in  and  arranged  the  folds  of  her  dress,  lest  they 
be  fastened  by  the  closing  of  the  door — yes,  she  saw 
every  tender  inclination — and  they  were  many — of  his 
manly  form  as  he  bent,  now  this  way,  now  that,  until  the 
carriage  sped  away  and  she  had  seen  him  stand  and 
look  after  it.  And  how  had  he  stood ! — in  the  attitude 
of  a  worshiper,  looking  toward  his  beloved  shrine.  And 


AN  .AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

she  saw  a  deep  sigh,  sighed  heavily,  as  he  left  the  spot 
where  he  stood  in  the  entrance. 

Had  Alverstone  looked  above  he  would  have  seen  a 
pair  of  fierce  black  eyes,  blazing  with  unquenchable  fire 
of  destruction  for  some  one  who  at  that  moment  had 
angered  Madame  Nitolsk,  and  for  one  of  her  dark  com- 
plexion that  threatening  eye  foreshowed  the  darkest  evil. 

She  would  know  this  young  American  singer.  She 
would  make  her  an  intimate  friend.  She  would  know 
her  at  once,  for  she  knew  that  as  yet  she  had  not  accepted 
the  love  Alverstone  had  thrown  in  such  prodigality  at 
her  feet.  She  would  pay  this  old  music  teacher  any 
price  for  an  hour,  just  before  or  just  after  the  time  of 
Julia  Pembroke's  lesson,  and  then  she  would  meet  her  at 
the  master's  and  every  one  knew,  she  told  herself,  that 
Americans  are  so  common;  she  was  certain  there  could 
be  no  hindrance  to  a  speedy  and  a  close  intimacy  with 
this  common  American  girl,  who  threatened  her  with 
the  doom  of  a  neglected  woman.  She  acknowledged  to 
herself  that  she  loved  this  American  man,  and  she  had 
loved  him  from  the  first  time  her  eyes  had  met  his,  on 
that  eventful  evening  when  her  husband  had  introduced 
him  into  their  Calcutta  home.  And  now,  this  very  eve- 
ning, she  had  heard  this  man  say  words  of  undying  love 
within  the  conservatory — but  into  the  ears  of  a  rival,  and 
not  into  those  of  herself  were  they  spoken. 

She  had  thought  out  the  plan ;  she  had  resolved, 
and  now  she  would  act.  She  stamped  her  foot  angrily, 
then  started  suddenly — as  all  who  love  deeds  of  dark- 
ness always  do — for  something  had  touched  her  upon 
the  shoulder;  but  it  was  only  a  leaf  from  some  foliage 
upon  a  balcony  above  the  one  on  which  she  stood,  and 
on  its  downward  course  it  had  touched  her  and  she  had 
started  as  she  should,  and  as  she  would  have  done,  had 
she  seen  the  end. 

114 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  next  afternoon  at  about  the  hour  of  three  Mad- 
ame Nitolsk  rang  at  the  Signor  Novara's  and  was  soon 
admitted  by  the  liveried  butler,  who  put  the  customary 
question  for  all  strangers,  "Have  you  an  appointment 
with  the  maestro  ?" 

"Yes,  I  am  a  new  pupil,"  she  answered. 

"Very  well ;  enter  if  you  please,"  and,  throwing  open 
the  door  leading  into  the  salon,  he  announced  Madame 
Nitolsk. 

At  the  end  of  the  salon,  which  was  three  rooms,  open- 
ing one  into  the  next  behind,  was  the  maestro.  He  was 
seated  at  a  grand  piano,  and  at  mention  of  the  name  he 
arose,  and,  coming  forward,  bowed  and  said:  "Will  you 
come  back  to  the  piano  with  me?" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Madame  Nitolsk;  "I  shall  cer- 
tainly do  so." 

No  preliminaries  were  necessary,  for  Madame  Nitolsk 
had  sent  a  letter  to  Signor  Novara  by  special  messenger, 
who  had  brought  her  by  return  trip  the  answer  to  her 
request  that  he  permit  her  to  enter  his  school,  and  he 
had  told  her  to  come  at  this  hour. 

"Ah!"  said  Madame  Nitolsk;  "I  am  overanxious  to 
study  with  you.  I  should  like  to  begin  at  once.  I  do  not 
wish  to  lose  a  minute." 

"Indeed!"  said  the  master,  turning  and  riveting  his 
gaze  upon  her. 

He  was  a  man  to  whom  the  ear  was  an  infallible 
guide.  He  had  spent  fifty  years  in  listening  to  the  tones 
of  the  human  voice,  and  the  slightest  shading  of  a  tone 
meant  a  corresponding  shade  of  character.  "He  turned 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

and  fastened  his  keen,  old  eyes  upon  the  beautiful  woman 
and  tried  to  see  something  upon  the  face  that  might 
strengthen  his  conviction  that  she  was  not  as  noble  in 
soul  as  beautiful  in  body,  but  he  was  foiled,  and  very 
reluctantly  he  told  himself  that  for  once  his  judgment 
had  deceived  him. 

He  urged  upon  himself  that  perhaps  he  was  growing 
old.  Had  he  been  acquainted  with  the  science  of  facial 
lines  he  had  read  exactly  that  of  which  his  ear  had  given 
alarm,  for  Madame  Nitolsk  was  not  on  guard  just  then. 

Her  delight  at  finding  herself  so  graciously  received 
by  Julia's  master  was  unbounded.  She  now  felt  that 
her  way  to  intimacy  with  the  American  was  clear  and 
very  easy  of  access.  Her  real  self  was  markedly  shown 
upon  her  face  in  gloating  over  the  picture  of  her  certain 
destruction  of  the  love  between  the  man  for  whom  she 
entertained  her  wild  passion  and  the  woman  whom  that 
man  loved — loved  as  every  noble  American  man  loves 
the  woman  of  his  choice. 

"Here,  Madame,"  said  the  master,  sitting  down  at  the 
piano.  "Come  stand  here,  beside  me,  and  I  will  test  your 
voice." 

As  the  maestro  looked  up  at  Madame  Nitolsk  he 
paused,  for  the  face,  though  beautiful  to  a  fault,  held 
some  strange  force  hidden  somewhere,  either  behind  the 
soft,  velvety  skin  of  matchless  beauty  or  in  some  feature 
of  that  face  of  unnatural  placidity. 

He  could  not  say  what  it  was ;  he  only  knew  that  he 
felt  disturbed.  He  looked  down  again  at  the  keyboard, 
and  the  strong  old  face  was  thoughtful — he  seemed  hesi- 
tating. 

At  last  he  looked  up  quickly,  and  spoke: 

"Are  you  very  serious,  Madame?  For,  if  you  are  not, 
I  do  not  care  to  test  your  voice.  To  say  the  least,  an 
inartistic  pupil  is  tiresome ;  but  to  me  an  inartistic  person, 

116 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

whether  pupil,  or  not,  has  no  claim  upon  my  time,  for 
I  am  an  artist — I  have  a  short  life,  at  longest,  to  accom- 
plish all  I  wish  to  do  for  this  great  art  of  song,  and  I 
do  not  want  any  one  to  take  my  golden  hours,  unless 
he  is  in  great  earnest — very,  very  serious." 

"Oh,  my  dear  maestro,  dismiss  all  fears  of  my  disin- 
terestedness. I  am  very  sincere,  indeed." 

"What  method  have  you  followed?" 

"According  to  your  beautiful  Bel  Canto  method,  I 
can  not  sing  at  all — this  is  why  I  have  come  to  you.  I 
heard  Madame  Cinati  sing  last  evening,  and,  too,  I 
learned  that  Mademoiselle  Pembroke  came  to  you.  I 
decided  that  you  might  be  able  to  do  something  for  my 
voice  yet.  I  have  studied  much,  though  with  various 
teachers,  and  with  teachers  of  diverse  methods.  Never- 
theless, I  beg  of  you  accept  me.  If  I  prove  unworthy, 
dismiss  me,  and  as  some  compensation  for  the  time 
wasted  upon  me  I  shall  present  you  with  precious  jewels 
of  great  value." 

"Oh!  la!  la!  la!"  thundered  the  maestro,  jumping 
to  his  feet  and  rushing  around  the  room  in  a  frenzy  of 
excitement. 

"How  dare  you  insult  art  like  that !  How  dare  you ! 
Don't  you  know  that  all  the  jewels  in  the  world  can  not 
repay  a  master  for  the  time  he  has  stolen  from  his  art 
to  teach  an  insincere  pupil?  Can  you  not  understand? 
Why — I  toil  by  day  and  by  night  for  my  art.  I  love  my 
art.  I  love  my  art,  I  want  no  money — I  want  only  art — 
art— art !" 

"Ah!  you  are  great!  you  are  great!"  exclaimed 
Madame  Nitolsk,  putting  her  palms  together,  and  as  if  in 
adoration.  "I  will  prove  to  you  that  I  am  as  earnest  in 
the  study  of  song  as  any  pupil  you  have  ever  had." 

This  she  said,  accompanied  by  such  grace,  by  such 
beauty  of  manner,  that  the  maestro's  rage  subsided  and 

117 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

he  smiled — the  smile  overspread  an  honest  face,  one  over 
which  the  soul's  light  shone  with  the  halo  of  inspiration. 

Madame  Nitolsk,  standing  in  the  attitude  of  meekest 
submission  and  immobile  as  a  marble  statue,  saw  the 
smile — read  the  open  soul  upon  the  beautiful,  old  counte- 
nance— and  inwardly  chuckled  with  ecstatic  joy  over  the 
victory  she  had  wrought  upon  this  strong,  noble  man. 

What  cared  she  for  his  art?  She  was  one  of  those 
souls  who  hated  harmony  in  any  form,  yet  one  of  those 
unnatural  souls  capable  of  making  harmony  or  discord 
at  will. 

The  maestro  again  went  to  his  place  at  the  piano, 
and,  striking  G  on  the  staff,  said :  "Give  that  sound  on 
the  open  Italian  A.  Don't  force — sing  easily." 

Madame  Nitolsk,  who  had  stepped  close  to  the  side 
of  the  piano,  and  facing  the  maestro,  proceeded  to  follow 
as  closely  as  possible  the  dictations  given  her,  for  she 
was  extremely  anxious  to  impress  the  old  master  that 
she  was  serious  in  the  matter. 

"No,"  said  the  master;  "that  tone  is  veiled.  Hold 
the  tip  of  the  tongue  against  the  lower  front  teeth.  You 
let  your  tongue  slip  back,  and  that  is  the  reason  your 
tone  is  veiled." 

Madame  Nitolsk  took  the  note  again.  "How  strange !" 
she  exclaimed,  when  she  had  finished.  "My  teacher 
taught  me  to  hold  the  tip  of  the  tongue  against  the 
cord  at  the  base  of  the  tongue." 

"You  said  your  teacher's  name  was — ?" 

"Signer  Vinola,"  said  Madame  Nitolsk. 

"I  don't  know  him." 

The  master  tried  to  fix  the  tip  of  his  tongue  in  this 
manner,  but  soon  desisted  with  a  shake  of  his  head. 
"Whoever  he  is,  that  is  barbarous — no  teaching  at  all. 
But  I  am  testing  your  voice,  not  giving  instructions.  Let 
us  continue." 

118 


AN  AMERICAN    SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

He  struck  middle  C  and  prepared  to  test  her  chest 
register,  going  down  the  scale  to  G  below  the  staff,  then 
up  to  the  F  above  middle  C.  Every  tone  made  by  Mad- 
ame Nitolsk  was  deep,  mellow  and  quite  perfect,  showing 
that  in  the  chest  notes  at  least  she  was  not  a  novice.  The 
maestro  was  pleased,  but  said  nothing. 

Preparatory  to  leading  to  the  head  notes,  he  struck 
A  above  middle  C.  "Now/'  said  he,  "take  that  tone  and 
give  la,  si,  do,  re,  and  continue  on  up  in  fourths  until  I 
say  stop." 

Madame  Nitolsk  put  forth  her  best  effort,  but  the 
head  notes  were  worse  than  had  been  the  medium  notes, 
for  they  were  thin  and  swallowed. 

She  strained,  forced  and  strangled  so  desperately  to 
reach  G  above  the  staff  that  the  master  was  irritated 
beyond  endurance,  for  nothing  partaking  of  the  nature 
of  forcing  was  recognized  as  music  by  the  master. 

.He  had  borne  with  her  struggling  E  and  F,  but  he 
could  not  listen  longer. 

"Enough,"  he  cried;  "you  look  like  a  comic  sketch 
of  a  tenore  robusto.  You  are  choking  yourself.  The 
higher  one  goes  the  lower  the  head  must  incline.  A 
down  chin  on  high  notes  is  the  secret  of  all  their  exquis- 
ite beauty." 

"But  Madame  Cinati  holds  her  head  high,"  quickly 
interrupted  Madame  Nitolsk. 

"That  is  true,"  replied  the  master;  "some  do,  espe- 
cially coloraturas,  when  executing  high,,  florid  passages, 
such  as  the  Bell  Song  from  'Lakme/  which  you  heard 
her  sing,"  and  as  he  spoke  his  fingers  mechanically  picked 
the  melody,  which  translates  so  well  the  tinkling  of  little 
bells.  "But  if  Madame  Cinati  had  held  her  head  down 
her  high  notes  would  have  been  sweet  and  resonant 
instead  of  simply  clear  and  penetrating."  Striking  D, 
E,  F  sharp,  he  said :  "Again,  please,  sing  re,  mi,  fa,"  for 

119 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

the  master  used  only  the  European  method  of  singing 
notes — the  method  in  which  the  do  always  remains  at  C — 
the  immovable  do. 

"Use  the  same  broad  A  you  did  in  chest  and  medium. 
Be  sure,"  he  added,  with  admonitory  emphasis,  "be  sure 
to  hold  down  your  chin." 

Madame  Nitolsk  took  the  dictation  and  sang.  It  was 
truly  wonderful  how  the  tones  had  improved  with  only 
the  dropping  of  the  chin. 

"Now,"  said  the  master,  in  a  pleased  tone,  "that  is 
good ;  your  voice  is  very  steady." 

Turning  from  the  piano,  he  sat  as  if  lost  in  thought. 
Then,  stroking  his  short  beard,  he  began:  "You  are  a 
contralto;  you  have  a  very  beautiful  voice.  To-day  there 
are  few  contraltos.  In  my  day  there  were  some,  but 
that  is  past.  Your  voice  has  been  misused.  I  see  your 
teacher  has  taught  you  to  direct  the  voice  against  the 
soft  palate.  With  the  soft  palate  as  the  point  of  aim,  the 
voice  is  without  resonance.  In  the  drawing-room  it 
would  be  a  bellow,  and  were  you  to  sing  at  the  Opera 
or  at  La  Scala  you  would  sound  like  a  child  singing 
from  the  bottom  of  a  well.  There  is  no  penetration  of 
tone  in  such  placement  of  the  voice.  To  possess  the 
ringing  and  the  carrying  qualities,  the  voice,  especially 
the  female  voice  and  the  high  tenor,  must  be  directed 
against  a.  hard  surface,  and  the  soft  palate  will  not  serve 
this  purpose — the  soft  palate  is  soft." 

"Possible!"  exclaimed  Madame  Nitolsk. 

So  greatly  had  the  master  interested  her  in  the  science 
of  voice  production  that  for  the  time  being  she  forgot 
the  motive  which  had  led  to  her  present  course  of  study. 

"Signor  Vinola  told  me  that  with  the  voice  directed 
against  the  soft  palate  there  was  music — soft,  liquid 
sound — as  he  expressed  it.  Furthermore,  he  said  that 

1 20 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

with  the  sound  directed  against  the  front  of  the  head 
the  voice  was  shrill  and  like  car  whistles." 

The  master  made  no  direct  reply  to  her  statement. 

"There  are  few  singers  of  to-day  who  have  made  a 
name  for  themselves  who  do  not  follow,  in  point  of  aim, 
the  teachings  of  the  Bel  Canto." 

"Indeed?"  inquired  Madame  Nitolsk,  with  a  genuine 
surprised  interrogation.  "Madame  Sembrich,  Madame 
Melba,  Monsieur  Caruso  and  Monsieur  Plangon?" 

"Ah,  yes;  every  one  you  have  mentioned.  They  are 
the  perfection.  And,  too,  there  are  others.  Listen  well 
and  I  will  tell  you  what  few  teachers  will — the  appoggio, 
or  the  placement  of  the  voice.  In  the  medium  register 
it  is  against  the  front  of  the  hard  palate;  in  the  chest 
register  it  is  directed  against  the  front  of  the  hard  pal- 
ate, with  the  necessary  borrowing  of  resonance  from  the 
chest  cavity;  in  the  head  register  it  is  against  the  front 
of  the  head,  here,"  and  the  master  placed  his  left  hand 
about  an  inch  back  from  where  the  heavy  growth  of  hair 
joined  the  forehead.  "It  is  never  directed  against  the 
forehead.  Do  you  understand  what  I  mean  by  the  direc- 
tion of  the  voice?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do.  You  mean  the  conception  held  in  the 
brain  must  direct  the  voice  against" — 

"Yes,  yes,"  interrupted  the  maestro ;  "that  is  right.  I 
see  you  understand  something  about  the  voice." 

Then  turning  his  eyes  upon  her,  he  scrutinized  her 
closely. 

Madame  Nitolsk  saw  and  read  his  thoughts.  She 
knew  he  doubted  her  sincerity,  and  before  he  had  time  to 
express  his  thoughts  she  spoke. 

"When  I  was  some  younger,  before  I  was  married,  I 
thought  to  become  an  opera  singer,  but  now  I  wish  to 
study  for  art's  sake  alone.  I  am  too  old  to  become  a 
professional,  but  I  want  to  sing  well." 

121 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"How  old  are  you — twenty-seven?"  asked  the  master. 

"No,  Signer;  I  am  just  twenty-five." 

"Ah !  that  is  young.  You  are  only  a  baby.  Can  not 
study  for  the  opera!  Of  course,  you  can,  if  you  want 
to  do  so.  But  you  have  interrupted  me.  Let  me  see;  I 
was  testing  your  registers.  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  now; 
I  was  telling  you  that  you  are  a  contralto.  You  have 
many  defects  to  overcome.  It  will  be  at  least  three  years 
before  I  can  say  your  voice  is  very  good.  Come,  let  me 
see  if  you  have  any  flexibility  of  voice." 

He  tried  her  on  turns,  triplets  and  other  ornaments, 
but  there  was  no  agility.  After  trying  the  plain  scale,  to 
ascertain  the  extreme  limit  of  her  voice,  he  said:  "Your 
compass  is  two  octaves,  from  G  below  the  staff  to  G  above 
the  staff.  Very  good,  but  how  your  chin  swells.  I  can  see 
it  from  here.  You  let  your  tongue  slip  back  down  into 
your  throat.  The  chin  must  always  be  soft  in  singing  or 
the  timbre  will  be  guttural.  Now  a  little  song;  I  want 
to  see  your  style." 

"Will  the  'Cancion  de  la  Heurta'  do?"  inquired 
Madame  Nitolsk. 

"What  is  the  composer's  name?" 

"Don  Sedeiia,"  she  answered;  "it  is  a  little  Spanish 
song." 

The  master,  shaking  his  head,  said :  "I  do  not  know  it. 
Signor  Vinola  gave  it  to  you,  I  suppose."  And,  rising 
from  the  piano,  he  prepared  to  seat  himself  near  by  and 
listen. 

"But  I  can  not  sing  without  an  accompaniment," 
objected  Madame  Nitolsk,  plaintively. 

The  master  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said,  impa- 
tiently: "Well,  then,  sing  something  else,  'Voi  che 
sapete' — did  Vinola  ever  teach  you  that?" 

At  the  same  time  he  struck  the  chords  of  the  prelude, 
which  in  its  treble  follows  the  melody. 

122 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"Ah!  yes,  I  know  it  well.  It  was  the  first  song 
Signer  Vinola  gave  me." 

"Madame  Nitolsk,"  said  the  master,  in  a  very  encour- 
aging voice,  for  he  hoped  to  disarm  her  of  any  fearful- 
ness,  especially  since  he  desired  to  know  the  exact  style 
in  which  she  would  sing  this  very  expressive  little 
song,  "you  will  sing  as  easily  as  you  would  were 
you  singing  for  a  few  sympathetic  friends.  Do  not 
attempt  to  follow  any  directions  which  I  have  given  you 
as  the  proper  manner  in  which  to  sing.  Sing  as  Signor 
Vinola  taught  you/' 

The  master  finished  the  prelude,  and  Madame  Nitolsk 
began  to  sing. 

Though  she  sang  the  notes  very  well — her  compass 
permitting  this,  without  the  least  effort ;  in  fact,  the  tones, 
as  tones,  were  good — when  she  bad  finished  the  master 
shook  his  head,  thoughtfully,  for  some  moments,  as  if  he 
were  incredulous. 

"Naturally  you  have  an  exquisite  organ,"  he  began; 
but  where  is  your  heart?  I  never  heard  any  one  sing 
like  that.  Surely  you  have  none.  Do  you  speak  Italian  ?" 

"Ah!  si,"  she  quickly  answered;  "Signor  il  Maestro 
parla  egli  italiano." 

"Si,  Signora,"  responded  the  master;  "that  is  my 
native  tongue." 

And  they  continued  to  speak  in  Italian  instead  of 
French,  as  they  had  been  doing. 

"Then  why  do  you  sing  'Voi  chc  sapete  che  cosa  e 
amore' — 'you  who  know  what  is  love' — like  you  were  a 
vicious  mad  dog?  When  you  sang  'amore' — 'love' — you 
looked  like  an  executioner.  Ugh !  what  a  face !  Your 
eyes  flashed  as  if  you  wanted  to  kill  me." 

Madame  Nitolsk  let  a  soft  laugh  escape  her,  for  he 
had  been  the  first  person  whom  she  had  known  to  read 
her  as  =h?  \v;i<. 

f 

123 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN  PARIS. 

"Madame,  I  repeat,  you  have  an  exquisite  organ.  Of 
course,  you  have  habits  which  must  be  broken,  and  your 
voice  must  be  developed.  But  you  have  no  more  heart 
than  a  stone,  and  I  tell  you  conscientiously  that  if  this 
is  your  soul,  you  can  never  hope  to  sing  beautifully.  A 
singer,  when  singing,  can  hide  nothing  of  the  inner  self. 
When  a  woman  has  not  cceur  de  femme,  that  is,  when 
the  heart  does  not  speak  through  each  note,  no  matter 
how  perfect  the  organ,  she  will  never  be  an  artist.  The 
test  is  over.  Do  you  still  want  to  study?  Do  you  want 
to  sing?" 

"Oh,  yes,  maestro;  do  take  me!"  pleaded  Madame 
Nitolsk. 

Just  then  the  doorbell  rang.  The  master  was  absorbed 
in  his  roll-book,  which  he  jokingly  called  his  student 
police  book. 

"Ah,  I  find  I  can  have  you  at  nine  A.  M.,"  he  said. 

"Impossible!"  she  exclaimed,  for  she  was  not  in  the 
habit  of  responding  to  any  call  at  that  hour,  much  less 
to  the  call  of  a  duty. 

The  master  continued  to  look  down  the  list  and 
spoke,  half  audibly,  yet  seemingly  to  himself:  "Miss 
Pembroke  at  half-past  nine,  Lafoyer  at  ten  and  Mon- 
sieur"— 

"Oh !  I  will  cancel,  my  engagement  of  to-morrow  and 
come  to  you  at  nine,"  interrupted  Madame  Nitolsk,  in  a 
highly  excited  manner. 

Her  agitation  was  impossible  of  suppression,  for  now 
she  saw  the  climax  to  her  design  in  the  study  of  song. 
She  had  not  dared  to  hope  for  so  speedy  an  arrival  of 
the  longed-for  moment,  that  moment  when  she  and  Julia 
Pembroke  should  be  in  intimate  association.  She  would — 
for  she  knew  her  subtle  powers — make  this  American 
girl  trust  her,  and  then —  This  delicious  bit  of  scheming 

124 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

was  broken  off  by  the  butler,  who  at  that  moment  pushed 
open  the  door  to  admit  Miss  Pembroke,  for  this  was 
Julia's  hour. 

"Viens  mignonne,"  cried  the  master. 

Julia  crossed  quickly  to  where  the  maestro  stood  and 
pressed  the  extended  hand  in  both  of  hers. 

During  the  past  six  years  he  had  been  to  her  a  friend 
— a  more  than  friend — a  father,  and  she  had  trusted  this 
noble  man  implicitly. 

"Are  you  ready  ?"  The  voice  was  tenderly  affectionate. 

As  he  looked  into  the  face  of  Julia  he  was  startled, 
for  he  saw  something  there  which  was  entirely  new  to 
him.  What  could  it  be!  There  was  a  sublime,  yet 
earthly  something,  which  clung  to  her  face  and  seemed 
to  be  a  part  of  it.  His  observation  became  more  keenly 
inquisitive.  No  trace  of  illness  was  there.  What  could 
it  be  ?  Ah !  he  knew ;  it  was  a  mellowness,  caused  by 
her  disappointment;  for  none  knew  better  than  he  how 
bitterly  she  regretted  the  postponement  of  her  debut — 
her  appearance  as  Lucia,  on  Christmas  eve.  This  had 
been  the  goal  for  which  she  had  worked,  for  which  she 
had  hoped,  and  which  had  been  just  within  her  grasp. 
Yes,  he  had  it  now. 

"Are  you  sad  your  old  teacher  told  you  to  study 
another  year?"  he  asked  quietly,  almost  reverently. 

"No,  maestro ;  I  am  glad.  I  shall  never  be  happy  to 
leave,"  and  she  bent  and  kissed  with  affectionate  tender- 
ness the  delicate,  though  strong-set  hand  of  the  master. 

"May  I  stay  for  Miss  Pembroke's  lesson?"  broke  in 
Madame  Nitolsk,  who  had  been  a  silent  and  very  will- 
ing spectator  of  the  very  pretty  scene  enacted  between 
fond  master  and  loving  pupil. 

"If  you  wish,"  replied  the  maestro. 

125 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"Ah!  you,  Madame  Nitolsk!"  said  Julia,  turning 
around,  for  she  had  thought  the  woman  seated  there  a 
stranger. 

Signer  Novara  never  introduced  his  pupils  to  one 
another  nor  to  others  not  pupils  before  he  had  asked 
permission  to  do  so. 

Madame  Nitolsk  was  the  personification  of  joy,  and, 
quickly  enfolding  Julia  in  one  of  her  warm  smiles,  said : 
"I  account  it  a  bit  of  excellent  good  fortune  that  I  am 
granted  the  privilege  of  listening  to  you  sing.  Last  night 
I  heard  much  in  praise  of  your  voice." 

"A  friend  of  yours,  Julia  ?"  inquired  the  master. 

"Yes,  maestro ;  I  met  her  last  evening  at  Lady  Trent's 
soiree." 

"Ah!  I  see.  Did  you  bring  the  song  I  told  you  to?" 
And  while  speaking  the  master  played  here  and  there  upon 
the  keys. 

"Oui,  Monsieur;  here  it  is." 

Julia  unrolled  the  piece  of  music,  which  was  a  vocalise, 
and  placed  it  upon  the  piano. 

While  Julia  sang,  Madame  Nitolsk  looked  at  her  and 
recalled  her  own  dark  reflections  regarding  Julia.  She 
wondered  how  she,  the  Madame  Nitolsk,  of  such  great 
wealth,  could  be  disturbed  by  that  simple,  unaffected, 
unassuming,  young  woman.  She  heard  nothing.  She  sat 
and  read  avariciously  Julia's  every  expression,  every 
movement,  every  motion,  but  could  not  pick  a  single  flaw 
in  the  character  sketch  she  made  of  her,  whereby  she 
might  justify  herself  for  her  jealousy  and  for  her  venom. 
Then  she  ceased  to  see  objectively.  She  was  wrapped  in 
the  solitude  of  her  own  imaginations.  But  though  she 
saw  and  heard  little  of  her  surroundings,  she  saw  and 
heard  much  subjectively.  She  remembered  what  Alver- 
stone  had  said  to  Julia  when  she  was  hidden  behind  the 
flowers  in  the  conservatory.  She  had  seen  Julia,  and 

126 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN  PARIS. 

had  seen  how  beautifully  cold  she  was,  though  the  tones 
of  her  voice  had  rung  true  to  love.  Yes,  she  remembered 
this  and  more,  for  she  had  heard  all  that  passed  between 
Julia  and  Alverstone. 

Writhing  inwardly,  under  the  scorpion's  sting,  she 
tried  to  smile  at  Julia,  who  stood  facing  her.  She  vaguely 
heard  the  trills,  the  scales,  the  arpeggios,  some  long  caden- 
zas, the  caressing  melody  of  a  vocalise.  She  heard  the  mas- 
ter's voice  break  in  every  now  and  then — "Your  breath 
is  jerky.  Your  mouth  is  too  wide  open,"  some  other  such 
corrections,  and  frequently  a  "brava." 

Within  herself  a  terrible  battle  was  waging.  She  felt 
triumphant,  then,  again,  vanquished. 

A  loud  chord  on  the  piano  recalled  her  to  the  realities 
of  life.  She  laughed  at  herself  and  her  folly;  then  she 
dreamed  again,  and  there  was  a  hand-to-hand  skirmish 
in  her  brain,  and  it  is  sometimes  more  interesting  to  view 
an  imaginary  struggle  than  to  view  the  smallness  of  true 
action. 

Then  the  devil  came  and  spoke  to  her,  for  this  one 
was  a  possibility,  this  which  she  was  cogitating. 

"Brava !  brava !"  cried  the  master. 

This  again  recalled  Madame  Nitolsk,  but  she  did  not 
laugh  this  time ;  instead,  she  shut  her  teeth  and  her  eyes 
contracted,  as  she  stared  at  the  singer. 

"Lo,  Hear  the  Gentle  Lark" — Julia  had  begun  to  sing 
that  simple  story,  told  in  notes,  of  the  gay,  careless  heart 
of  a  modest  brown  bird — a  lark. 

As  Julia  sang,  the  lark  was  in  her  throat,  but 
her  voice  told  more  than  a  mere  vocal  race.  It  was  a 
divine  song,  for  something  was  playing  at  the  harp  strings 
of  her  heart,  and  a  tender  ether  whispered  in  at  her  ear — 
whispered  the  dawn  of  love  to  her  awakening  soul. 

Madame  Nitolsk  was  not  dreaming  now ;  she  was 
fully  awakened  and  in  the  fullest  possession  of  her  powers, 

127 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

but  as  Julia  left  the  melody  and  sang  the  half-cadenza 
Madame  Nitolsk  again  looked  in  at  her  own  thoughts 
and  forgot  where  she  was,  but  not  who  she  was. 

As  the  song  went  on,  the  velocity,  when  nearing  the 
climax,  became  marvelous,  and  the  thoughts  of  Madame 
Nitolsk  sped  on,  but  not  out.  They  were  making  a  whirl- 
pool in  her  brain,  and  she  stood  alone,  very  small  in  the 
center,  as  the  surge  circled  around  her.  There  were  many 
voices,  which  sang  wild,  discordant  snatches ;  they  were 
mocking  her,  they  were  twisting  around  her,  they  were 
trying  to  crush  her,  to  sink  her. 

Then,  half  dazed,  she  heard  Julia  laughing,  but  in 
reality  it  was  only  the  repeated  thirds  detached,  and  not 
a  laugh. 

The  whirlpool  raced  on,  and  all  the  voices  shrieked  in 
chorus — "You  are  jealous."  Then  they  all  laughed  at 
once.  Far  down,  and  very  near  her  heart,  a  small  voice, 
with  a  tone  like  the  sharp  blade  of  a  knife,  said :  "Alver- 
stone  does  not  love  you ;  he  never  did  and  never  will.  He 
loves  Miss  Pembroke  and  she  loves  him."  Then  every- 
thing stopped  and  she  awoke. 

The  piano  was  not  playing,  neither  was  Julia  singing. 
The  master  was  speaking,  but  not  to  Julia,  for  both  mas- 
ter and  pupil  were  looking  toward  the  door. 

Madame  Nitolsk  turned  and  looked,  too;  she  saw 
Monsieur  Nevere  bowing  low,  and  heard  him  say :  "Par- 
don, maestro,  a  thousand  pardons,"  and  then  behind 
Nevere,  a  little  to  his  left,  she  saw — no — impossible — one 
bowing  as  if  entranced.  Was  she  dreaming?  Was  this 
only  a  hideous  semblance  of  a  reality?  It  seemed  far  off. 
Now  she  heard  Nevere  say:  "My  friend,  Mr.  Alverstone, 
he  begs  to  come  and  hear" — 

"Yes,  I  know,  I  understand,"  said  the  master,  inter- 
rupting Nevere.  "Sit  down,  Monsieur  Alverstone ;  please 
excuse  my  perforced  rudeness.  This  is  a  lesson  hour." 

128 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

Alverstone  looked  at  Julia  and  smiled.  Madame 
Nitolsk  saw  and  read  what  was  revealed  in  that  smile. 

Julia  winningly  returned  the  silent  greeting,  but  said 
nothing,  for  she  was  standing  on  the  rostrum,  with  her 
music  upon  the  music  rack  before  her. 

Alverstone  was  satisfied  with  the  recognition  shown 
him  by  Julia,  for  he  knew  now  that  she  was  not  resentful 
toward  him  for  his  sudden  and  persistent  expressions  of 
love  for  her.  He  turned  to  go  to  the  seat  indicated  by 
the  maestro,  when  he  saw  a  pair  of  flashing  eyes  riveted 
upon  him.  He  had  not  seen  that  a  third  person  was  in 
the  room,  when  he  and  Nevere  entered,  but  he  was  very 
sensible  of  the  fact  now.  Pausing  an  instant  only  to 
regain  his  self-possession,  he  passed  over  to  Madame 
Nitolsk,  instead  of  taking  the  seat  he  had  intended  taking. 

"Ah!  Madame  Nitolsk,  you  here  to  study?"  said 
Alverstone,  and  he  took  a  small  chair  close  to  the  sofa, 
upon  which  Madame  Nitolsk  sat,  and  in  enough  prox- 
imity to  speak  easily  with  the  Madame. 

"No  doubt,  you  think  it  a  trifle  odd,"  said  Madame 
Nitolsk,  with  a  soft  laugh.  "Very  odd — perhaps  that  I 
should  be  here,  that  I" — 

"Silence,  Madame,"  shouted  the  maestro,  rising  and 
stamping  his  foot;  "this  is  a  serious  studio,  not  an  idle 
drawing-room.  If  you  wish  to  converse,  there  is  the 
reception  room." 

Although  the  few  words  of  the  little  chit-chat  had 
been  carried  on  in  almost  inaudible  tones,  the  low  mur- 
mur was  not  permissible  by  the  master. 

At  the  reception  of  -Lady  Trent  Alverstone  had 
learned  from  Julia  the  name  of  her  vocal  instructor,  and 
that  Nevere  was  her  flutist.  During  the  ride  home  that 
night  he  was  busy  with  his  thoughts,  arranging  and  re^ 
arranging,  finding  no  rest  until  he  arrived  at  the  satisfac- 

129 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

tory  conclusion  as  to  how  he  might  meet  Julia  at  Signer 
Novara's.  He  would  see  Nevere  on  the  morrow  and  try  to 
accompany  him  on  a  visit  to  the  master's,  where  he  would 
surely  meet  Julia. 

On  the  next  day,  under  pretext  of  great  love  for  the 
ensemble  of  the  voice  and  flute,  he  had  made  known  his 
desire  to  Nevere.  He  had  feared  that  if  he  should  specify 
the  Signer  Novara,  Nevere  might  easily  suspicion  that  the 
American  man  might  be  overfond  of  the  American  sing- 
er ;  and,  too,  since  the  love  affair  of  Etienne  Nevere  had 
proven  so  barren  a  waste,  Nevere  might  feel  it  his  duty 
to  keep  him  away  from  like  temptations.  Alverstone, 
fearing  Nevere,  whom  he  knew  to  be  very  wise  in  judging 
of  actions,  had  only  expressed  his  desire  in  a  nonchalant 
way.  Still  he  saw  the  hopelessness  of  his  prospects  in 
meeting  Julia  unless  he  should  be  able  to  do  so  through 
the  medium  of  his  new  friend — Etienne  Nevere, 

On  that  morning  when  Alverstone  had  been  ushered 
into  the  presence  of  Etienne  Nevere  and  had  expressed 
his  hope  to  hear  Nevere  play  for  some  singer,  Nevere 
had  given  him  a  glance  and  then  answered :  "Come  along 
with  me  now.  I  am  going  to  play  for  an  American.  You 
will  enjoy  this,  I  know,  for  she  has  an  extraordinary 
voice." 

Alverstone  did  not  know  Etienne  Nevere,  but  Etienne 
Nevere  knew  him,  and,  what  was  of  vastly  more  conse- 
quence, had  Alverstone  been  aware  of  the  same,  Nevere 
had  read  the  meaning  of  the  facial  twitchings,  which 
told  of  the  golden  chain  of  love  that  bound  Alverstone 
a  captive  to  some  one.  Though  not  a  curious  person, 
Nevere  meant  to  know  who  that  captor  was. 

"The  lesson  lasts  but  fifteen  minutes,"  said  Nevere, 
by  the  way  of  apologetic  explanation  for  his  nervous- 
ness, "and  the  maestro  is  as  punctual  as  clockwork.  I 

130 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

dare  not  be  a  moment  late.  Every  one  reports  there 
on  time." 

Alverstone  had  feared  to  inquire  the  name  of  the 
singer;  nevertheless  he  had  gone  willingly,  glad  to  find 
himself  on  the  way  to  the  scene  of  Julia's  daily  life.  And 
now,  in  the  joy  of  this  supreme  moment,  he  failed  to 
conceal  the  happiness  which  he  felt. 

Of  the  four  within  the  room,  Julia  was  the  least  able 
to  see  him.  Madame  Nitolsk  gave  Alverstone  her  undi- 
vided attention.  The  master  and  Nevere  were  so  placed 
that  their  time  was  divided  between  duties  and  obser- 
vation of  Alverstone,  whom  both  regarded  for  reasons 
appealing  to  each.  Nevere  was  alive  to  the  impression 
Julia  made  upon  Alverstone,  and  the  master,  though  not 
gifted  in  mind  reading  as  was  Nevere,  yet  felt  uneasi- 
ness lest  this  young  American  might  have  some  hidden 
purpose  in  coming — some  design  upon  the  artistic  life 
of  his  "baby  pupil,"  as  he  caressingly  termed  Julia.  His 
usually  benign  countenance  often  gave  evidence  of  this 
inward  commotion — this  fear  of  scented  danger.  Every 
now  and  then  he  looked  inquisitively  over  his  glasses  at 
Alverstone,  then  at  Julia,  then  at  Madame  Nitolsk,  and 
then  he  would  say  to  himself:  "No,  it  is  not  for  Julia; 
this  young  man  has  not  come  for  Julia." 

From  the  flushed  condition  of  Madame  Nitolsk's  face 
he  judged  that  it  was  she  who  had  drawn  this  young 
stranger  hither.  Then,  too,  he  told  himself,  that  since 
Julia  had  been  with  him  for  the  past  six  years,  and  had 
never  had  any  one  meet  her  before,  it  was  unkind  to 
think  her  guilty  of  so  flagrant  a  violation  of  his  rules. 
For  Julia  understood  there  was  nothing  so  displeasing 
to  her  master  as  having  listeners  present  during  the  les- 
son hours. 

Only  at  rests  could  Julia  think  of  aught  but  her  song. 
It  was  a  very  difficult  song,  but  especially  difficult  when 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

sung  for  an  exacting  master,  whose  unerring  ear  was 
keenly  arive  to  the  slightest  error  in  the  nice  shading  of 
a  tone.  But  when  she  found  herself  in  the  enjoyment 
of  a  relaxation,  afforded  by  a  moment  of  rest,  her  mind 
took  on  pleasant  thoughts  of  Alverstone.  She  knew  the 
secret  thread  by  which  he  had  found  her  bower  of  mel- 
ody, and  this  thought  communicated  its  roseate  tint  to 
her  cheeks. 

Alverstone,  whose  eyes  never  lifted  from  Julia,  saw 
the  color  and  also  saw  the  thought  in  the  modest  glance, 
which,  simultaneously  with  the  rising  glow,  she  gave 
him.  It  was  only  a  glance,  but  it  was  sufficient  for  each 
to  understand  that  each  understood  the  mutual  regard 
each  had  for  the  other. 

Wicked  Cupid !  how  many  great  careers  in  philosophy, 
in  medicine,  in  law,  in  theology,  in  art,  in  every  commend- 
able walk  of  life,  haxe  you  checked,  if  not  entirely 
destroyed,  in  your  wild,  madcap  career ! 

There  is  no  such  word  as  fail  for  this  god  of  love, 
if  ever  he  succeeds  in  getting  his  subjects  to  cast  the 
fateful  glance.  It  is  wise  to  attempt  no  trifling  with 
Cupid.  Only  earnest  contestants  for  the  prizes  offered  by 
the  clever  little  cherub  should  enter  the  lists. 

She  sang  again,  but  the  breath  was  insufficient  for 
the  phrase,  and  the  master  called  out:  "That  breath  was 
taken  too  quickly ;  it  was  far  from  enough  to  sustain  that 
phrase.  Try  it  again." 

Julia  knew  the  cause  of  the  failure,  and  nobly  deter- 
mined to  recall  her  thoughts  and  give  her  mind  wholly 
to  the  maestro  and  to  her  song,  for  she  knew  that  she 
had  allowed  herself  to  divide  her  attention  between  Alver- 
stone and  the  song. 

"Take  the  same  phrase  again,"  said  the  master ;  "your 
breath  was  better,  but  not  your  best.  What  have  I  told 
you  to  keep  ever  in  mind? — 'No  water,  no  sailing;  no 

132 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

breathing,  no  singing.'  According  as  you  wish  to  sail 
you  seek  the  water  upon  which  you  would  sail,  and  accord-i 
ing  as  you  wish  to  sing,  you  must  find  the  breath  with 
which  to  sing.  Now,  ready;  breathe  slowly." 

The  master  spoke  kindly,  but  firmly,  and  finished  by 
shaking  his  short  finger  at  her,_  as  if  in  warning;  then 
concluded:  "There,  now,  remember." 

As  Julia,  Madame  Nitolsk  and  Alverstone  descended 
the  few  steps,  and  while  waiting  for  the  butler  to  open 
the  street  door,  they  heard  distinctly  the  voices  of  Nevere 
and  the  maestro. 

Nevere  had  remained  a  few  minutes  at  the  door  of  the 
salon,  talking  with  the  master.  They  were  evidently 
speaking  about  music,  for  every  now  and  then  the  waiting 
group  could  hear  the  master  say:  "Four  sharps  is  not 
the  key,"  and  sentences  of  like  musical  import.  And  then 
the  master's  words  came  clear  and  distinct.  Evidently 
he  had  counted  much  upon  the  ensemble  of  the  voices  of 
the  three  below  to  drown  what  he  was  saying  to  Nevere ; 
but  the  emphatic  admonition  came  clear  and  defined: 
"Nevere,  please,  the  next  time  you  come,  and  each  time 
after,  remember  that  my  studio  is  not  an  Exposition  des 
Chiens.  When  it  is  I  will  send  you  many  invitations. 
Your  choice  of  guests  is  admirable.  Monsieur  Alver- 
stone must  excuse  me.  You  know,  Nevere,  that  I  am 
very  sensitive  on  this  point." 

The  maestro  had  not  liked  the  slight  nervousness 
which  Julia  had  shown  during  the  lesson,  and  he  would 
not  have  it  again.  Never  once  in  his  long  life  had  this 
grand  old  man  known  an  idle  hour,  and  to  him  it  was 
intolerable  in  others. 

Nevere  descended  into  the  vestibule  and  all  went  out 
together. 

The  air  was  humid,  and  some  fifteen  minutes  before 
it  must  have  been  raining ;  but  the  pavement  was  dry,  as 

133 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

it  is  in  Paris  in  an  incredibly  short  time  after  a  rain  has 
ceased  to  sift,  fall  or  pour,  and  the  sky  was  gray. 

Nevere  was  gloomily  thoughtful,  for  he  had  disliked 
very  much  the  idea  that  the  maestro  should  have  inti- 
mated that  he  was  not  serious — he,  Etienne  Nevere, 
master-genius  of  the  art  of  the  brush  and  the  canvas — 
portrait  painter  of  ecclesiastics,  of  royalty,  of  social 
heads. 

It  was  no  slight  pain,  this,  he  felt  at  the  Signer 
Novara's  insinuations.  To  think  that  he  must  be 
reminded  of  the  inconsistency  of  a  great  artist  like  him- 
self in  being  guilty  of  failure  to  keep  his  appointment 
with  the  maestro  as  flutist,  and  for  that  very  grave  cause 
— gossip  with  a  comrade. 

Madame  Nitolsk  was  too  angry  to  speak,  for  Alver- 
stone  had  stepped  ahead  and  was  walking  beside  Julia, 
while  she  was  left  no  choice,  but  forced  to  walk  with 
Nevere. 

Julia  walked  in  silence  and  held  a  silk  handker- 
chief over  her  mouth,  and  partially  closing  her  nose,  to 
preclude  the  possibility  of  a  cold. 

"I  never  walk  when  the  air  is  not  fine,"  said  Julia, 
in  a  muffled  voice,  to  Alverstone.  "I  am  very  sorry, 
but  I  must  perforce  take  a  cab  here,  or  I  may  suffer  a 
cold." 

"Stand  here,  Miss  Pembroke,  and  I'll  go  signal  that 
cab  yonder." 

He  started  in  the  direction  of  a  victoria  that  was 
crossing  the  street  a  short  distance  up. 

"You  are  wise,  Miss  Pembroke,  to  take  a  cab," 
observed  Nevere;  "if  you  walk  home  in  this  air  you 
should  have  an  Angora  in  your  throat  to-morrow." 

He  was  glad  to  say  a  word  to  Julia,  for  he  did  not 
fancy  Madame  Nitolsk.  He  was  a  French  gentleman, 
of  the  fine,  old  school,  and  nothing  pained  him  more 

134 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

than  close  contact  with  a  woman  lacking  in  delicate  sen- 
sibilities. And  as  anger  shows  the  depths  of  one's  char-* 
acter,  Madame  Nitolsk,  with  all  her  subtleties,  was  no 
exception  to  this  rule. 

Nevere  was  a  great  portrait  painter,  and  so  knew 
that  something  was  different  in  her  manner,  which  he 
had  never  seen  before.  But  he  told  himself  that  he 
was  not  in  a  very  prepossessing  mood;  and  then,  too, 
he  was  an  artist,  not  a  society  man,  and,  therefore,  could 
not  pet  each  whim  and  mood  of  women,  no  matter  how 
beautiful  or  brilliant  they  might  be. 

Alverstone  could  not  attract  the  notice  of  his  cab- 
man, but  one  turning  the  corner  just  then  saw  the  young 
American  waiting  for  her  cab,  and  drove  up  to  the  curb- 
stone where  the  group  was  standing.  He  knew  this 
young  girl  to  go  there  for  lessons,  and  wisely  watched 
around  for  her.  On  days  that  were  not  pleasant  Julia 
never  failed  to  take  a  cab.  She  was  only  one  passenger ; 
besides,  she  always  gave  him  his  expected  gratuity.  Had 
Julia  known  all,  she  would  have  seen  that  far  back  in 
the  beginning  of  her  life  in  Paris  this  same  driver  had 
had  a  chat  with  the  concierge  of  her  apartment  house, 
and  that  from  her  he  had  learned  of  the  bon  cceur,  or 
kind  heart,  of  Mademoiselle  Pembroke — the  American 
singer. 

Alverstone  pressed  Julia's  hand,  Nevere  bowed  defer- 
entially and  Madame  Nitolsk  smiled,  as  one  much  pleased, 
saying,  "Au  revoir,  Mademoiselle." 

Julia  bowed  once  and  said:  "Good  evening."  Then, 
quickly  covered  her  mouth  again,  and  Alverstone  closed 
the  door.  And  the  victoria  drove  away. 

As  Madame  Nitolsk  and  the  two  men  neared  the  end 
of  the  Rue  de  Monceau,  at  the  juncture  of  the  Avenue 
Friedland  with  the  Boulevard  Haussmann,  Etienne 
Nevere  left  his  companions  of  the  walk  and  went  in  the 

135 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

direction  of  the  Place  de  1'Etoile,  for  he  was  to  play 
for  Madame  Legay,  the  first  lyric  singer  at  the  Opera. 

Alverstone  and  Madame  Nitolsk  turned  to  continue 
down  the  boulevard.  As  they  left  Haussmann  and  went 
to  the  Rue  Auber,  a  landau  drawn  by  two  dull-black 
horses  turned  off  the  rue  down  the  boulevard.  It  bore 
the  coat  of  arms  of  the  Trents.  Alverstone  saw  it  and 
recognized  it,  and  so  did  Madame  Nitolsk. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  then  she 
drew  very  near  Alverstone,  and,  lowering  her  voice  to 
a  faint  sound,  said:  "Our  friend  Lieutenant  Trent  is 
soon  to  be  married." 

""True?  To  whom?" 

"Miss  Pembroke.     You  know  of  their  engagement?" 

For  a  moment  Alverstone  was  caught  in  the  trap 
set  by  Madame  Nitolsk.  He  gave  a  very  perceptible 
start  at  mention  of  Julia's  name,  but  quickly  concealed 
his  emotion. 

"Where  did  you  learn  this?"  he  inquired,  curiously. 

"Oh!  you  do  not  know  of  the  affair?"  again  asked 
Madame  Nitolsk. 

"No,  I  do  not,"  replied  Alverstone.  "Who  told  you, 
may  I  ask?" 

"Yes,  you  may  ask;  but  I  can  only  reply  that  many, 
many  persons  have  told  me.  I  only  learned  of  it  last 
night,  at  the  soiree.  It  seems  it  is  the  talk — rumor,  if 
you  please — of  all  English  circles.  They  say  it  is  the 
cause  of  the  Lieutenant's  return  from  the  far  East." 

Alverstone  looked  down  Rue  Auber  and  tried  to 
keep  Madame  Nitolsk  from  seeing  his  face,  but  she  was 
exceptionally  sensitive  to  such  matters,  and  needed  her 
eyes  no  longer  to  tell  her  that  this  bit  of  news  was  tor- 
turing Hampton  Alverstone,  and  in  a  most  excruciating 
manner.  She  fairly  crushed  herself  in  her  diabolical 
delirium  at  the  agony. 

136 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

She  had  seen  his  loving  pressure  of  Julia's  hand 
before  he  had  closed  the  cab  door.  She  had  seen  the 
soul-flit  go  from  eye  to  eye  as  Julia  had  raised  her  eyes 
when  saying  her  one  good-bye.  All  that  had  transpired 
to-day,  from  the  time  of  the  entrance  of  Alverstone  and 
Nevere,  had  been  carefully  noted  by  Madame  Nitolsk, 
and  she  had  accepted  as  a  foregone  conclusion  the  love 
of  Alverstone  for  Miss  Pembroke.  She  knew  Miss  Pem- 
broke did  not  reciprocate  this  love  as  fully  as  Alver-i 
stone  might  wish,  but  she  was  certain  that  the  American 
singer  was  not  insensible  to  his  love. 

Hampton  Alverstone  loved  Julia  Pembroke,  and  in 
so  far  she  felt  herself  vanquished.  But  she  would  not 
remain  vanquished.  No  obstacle  which  she  wished 
removed  ever  remained  long  before  her,  and  this  one 
would  be  removed.  She  had  once  been  in  Paradise,  for 
like  all  persons,  she  had  been  born  a  child,  and  children 
are  innocent,  and  childhood  is  earthly  Paradise. 

Alverstone's  love  for  Julia  must  be  quenched.  To 
Madame  Nitolsk  it  were  not  possible  that  Julia  was 
capable  of  enslaving  Alverstone  so  deeply  that  he  either 
willingly  or  unwillingly  should  love  even  a  fold  of  cloth 
because  it  touched  her  exquisite  throat,  or  that  he  could 
love  distractedly  the  crease  in  a  pair  of  gloves  because 
the  gloves  had  been  too  hastily  clasped  around  Julia's 
delicate  small  wrist.  Madame  Nitolsk  still  knew  Julia 
Pembroke  to  be  a  beautiful  woman — beautiful  from  her 
innate  charm  of  womanhood — a  happy  condition,  to  which 
no  power  on  earth  could  ever  have  elevated  Madame 
Nitolsk. 

No  one  understands  such  existing  circumstances  bet- 
ter nor  feels  the  crushing  force  of  their  truth  more  than 
the  one  who  has  fallen  by  the  way  and  can  never  again 
stand  upon  the  summit  of  perfect  womanhood  or  perfect 
manhood. 

137 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

Madame  Nitolsk  knew  that  only  by  intrigue  could 
she  ever  harm  the  woman  whose  sterling  worth  had 
moved  to  its  depths  the  love  of  an  English-American — 
Hampton  Alverstone. 

He  should  think  Julia  a  double  character.  It  might 
be  hard,  she  reasoned  on,  to  bring  him  to  believe  aught 
wrong  of  Julia,  for  these  Northern  men  and  women  were 
not  prone  to  think  ill  of  those  in  whom  they  placed  their 
trust.  As  this  was  the  only  course  which  seemed  to 
present  itself,  she  began  at  once. 

"You  do  not  think  it  probable  that  Miss  Pembroke  is 
engaged  to  Lieutenant  Trent?"  again  asked  Madame 
Nitolsk. 

Alverstone  turned  and  looked  inquiringly  at  her. 
There  was  a  small  gleam  in  his  eyes,  that,  as  he  con- 
tinued his  gaze,  almost  twinkled.  She  saw  it  and  under- 
stood that  he  did  not  believe  what  she  had  said.  Very 
well,  he  shall  believe,  she  thought,  with  fine  mental 
emphasis  on  the  shall.  She  must  find  evidence  of  a  some- 
what material  nature.  What  should  it  be? 

They  were  now  passing  a  small  show  case  of  a  jew- 
eler. The  window  was  artistically  arranged,  and  the 
gold  and  precious  stones  looked  very  tempting  against 
their  purple  background.  It  was  near  Christmas,  and  a 
fog  had  settled  down  on  Paris,  as  it  often  doeis  during 
the  winter  months.  The  lights  had  been  lit,  and  the 
interior  of  the  shop  was  almost  as  gay  as  the  brilliant 
window.  Lying  within  one  of  the  little  purple  boxes 
was  a  beautiful  lyre.  It  was  almost  the  facsimile  of 
the  one  Madame  Nitolsk  had  given  Trent  on  the  morning 
of  the  ride  in  the  Bois. 

Madame  Nitolsk's  brain  worked  quickly,  and  soon 
framed  a  scheme.  This  jewel  in  the  window  had  made 
a  suggestion. 

"Look!"  said  Madame  Nitolsk,  stopping  Alverstone 

138 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

and  glancing  first  at  the  window  and  then  at  him,  with 
a  quick,  inquisitive,  yet  smiling  regard,  and  then  back  at 
the  window  again.  "Look!  there  is  an  exact  pattern 
of  the  lyre  given  Lieutenant  Trent  by  Miss  Pembroke. 
The  one  near  the  center — near  that  plain  gold  bangle. 
See?"  and  she  pointed  her  small  gloved  finger  solicit- 
ously toward  the  place  at  which  she  wished  him  to  look. 

She  felt  secure  in  saying  just  what  she  wished  to 
say  to  suit  her  purpose,  for  well  she  knew  that  there  was 
nothing  to  fear  from  detection  by  either  of  the  men — • 
Alverstone  or  Trent.  For  Alverstone  would  not  allow 
himself  to  ask  so  personal  a  question  of  any  one,  she 
was  sure,  and  Lieutenant  Trent,  she  knew,  was  far  too 
proud  of  his  name  ever  to  acknowledge  having  received 
such  a  present  from  any  woman  between  whom  and  him- 
self there  existed  a  bond  less  than  that  of  kinship. 

"It  is  a  very  becoming  present  from  a  gifted  singer 
to  her  fiance,"  she  went  on,  enthusiastically.  "Oh! 
it  is  so  beautiful.  You  must  see  it;  the  Lieutenant 
wears  it  on  his  chain — very  beautiful  diamonds  in 
it — three,  I  believe — fine  ones.  A  lyre  from  a  song- 
stress whom  he  has  decided  to  cage  for  himself!  How 
romantic!"  She  looked  askance  at  Alverstone  as  they 
walked  on,  then,  again:  "It  is  so  like  the  dear  little 
girl.  Really,  I  am  much  in  love  with  her  myself." 

She  paused,  in  hopes  that  Alverstone  would  speak, 
but  his  mouth  was  sealed.  They  walked  on,  and  the 
short  silence  which  ensued  was  ominous.  It  turned  the 
heart  of  Madame  Nitolsk  to  stone;  it  frenzied  her  jeal- 
ous mind.  She  laughed  lightly — a  pretty  laugh,  though. 

"Truly,  if  you  do  not  speak  soon,  I  shall  begin  to 
think  you  are  not  pleased  with  the  good  fortune  of 
your  friend,  the  Lieutenant,  in  winning  for  himself 
your  charming  American  songstress." 

139 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Alverstone  recalled  himself,  understanding  that  Mad- 
ame Nitolsk  had  reason  to  think  his  action  strange. 

"It  would  be  a  very  appropriate  gift,  I  am  sure. 
I  am  not  cruel;  I  should  like  to  see  Miss  Pembroke 
happy.  If  she  loves  Lieutenant  Trent  and  he  loves  her, 
there  is  no  objection  offered  by  me." 

"But  you  saw  the  lyre,  did  you  not,  last  evening,  at 
the  Trents?" 

Alverstone's  cane  struck  hard  upon  the  pavement. 
"Yes,  I  did,"  he  retorted,  petulantly.  "But  how  do  you 
know  Miss  Pembroke  gave  it  to  him?" 

And  his  tone  was  curiously  inquiring,  for  he  was 
loth  to  believe  that  Julia  had  given  Trent  the  lyre. 

"I  was  struck  by  its  unique  beauty,  and  I  told  the 
Lieutenant  so,"  replied  Madame  Nitolsk,  with  celerity. 
"I  asked  him  where  he  had  bought  it.  He  said  it  was 
a  present.  Had  I  suspected  aught  of  the  truth  I  should 
not  have  put  the  question  so  pointedly.  I  expected  him 
to  say  that  he  had  gotten  it  on  Rue  de  la  Paix  or  Rue 
Royale  or  at  Tiffany's.  He  actually  blushed — that  brave 
Lieutenant  Trent — then  I  said,  'Ah,  I  beg  your  pardon; 
but  I  know  who  gave  it  to  you/  He  blushed  a  deep 
crimson  at  this,  and  then  I  said:  'Miss  Pembroke  gave 
it  to  you.' " 

"And  what  did  Trent  say?"  asked  Alverstone. 

"Not  a  word,  yet  I  know  that  his  silence  is  properly 
construed  when  read  to  mean  assent  to  my  question. 
Therefore,  what  more  would  you  !  I  ceased  my  importuni- 
ties, and,  putting  all  the  little  rumors  together,  I  felt 
that  I  had  the  name  of  the  giver  of  that  beautiful  lyre." 

She  paused  a  moment  and  looked  up  at  Alverstone 
with  a  pleading  look.  Then  she  went  on  more  rapidly 
than  before,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  be  so  emphatically 
explicit. 

140 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"As  to  their  engagement,  I  heard  it  from  many,  many 
people.  And  did  you  not  remark  how  devotedly  he 
guarded  her  during  the  evening?" 

"I  know  they  were  together  much,"  replied  Alver- 
stdne,  "but  not  to  the  exclusion  of  others." 

"Ah!  that  is  very  prettily  put.  You  men  have  so 
nice  a  way  of  appearing  far  above  the  ignoble  pettinesses 
of  women.  Nevertheless,  my  dear  friend,  Mr.  Alver- 
stone,  listen.  Do  not  be  vague ;  listen — the  engagement — 
a  lyre — what  people  say — what  follows — the  marriage" — 
She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  laughed;  at  the 
same  time  she  looked  at  Alverstone  to  see  if  her  words 
had  had  the  desired  effect.  Alverstone  was  looking 
straight  ahead  of  him  and  made  no  reply.  At  first  he 
had  disbelieved  his  companion,  but  he  had  seen  the  charm. 
And,  though  he  disliked  himself  for  the  unmanly  thought 
that  there  was  more  than  a  perfect  consistency  in  their 
dancing  as  many  dances  as  they  chose,  he  yet  felt  a 
gnawing  of  jealousy.  Alverstone  loved  Julia,  and  the 
true  love  of  an  American  man  permits  of  trust  in  the 
object  of  his  warmest  affection. 

Yet  a  little  shade  of  desolation  swept  across  his  love- 
lorn soul. 

"Perhaps  that  is  why  she  gave  me  no  encouragement," 
he  thought. 

They  were  now  at  the  door  of  Madame  Nitolsk's. 
Alverstone  lifted  his  high  hat  politely  and  bowed,  as  all 
Parisians  are  able  to  bow — to  the  point  of  perfection. 

"Good  evening,  Monsieur  Alverstone."  »• 

"Good  evening,  Madame  Nitolsk." 

"You  will  come  to  see  me  soon?" 

"Thank  you ;  I  shall  remember.  Bonsoir,  Madame." 

"Au  revoir,  Monsieur." 

They  parted. 


141 


CHAPTER  X. 

Nevere,  seated  before  a  table  in  his  apartment,  had 
just  finished  the  transposition  of  a  tenor  role  into  the 
barytone. 

"How  ridiculous!"  he  thought.  "Tenors  all  want  to 
be  leading  tenors,  and  most  men  want  to  be  tenors.  I 
suppose  they  should  not  be  blamed,  for  they  only  wish 
to  soar,  and  that  is  natural.  But  think  of  all  this  work 
for  me,  just  to  suit  a  whim.  It  will  not  be  at  all  pretty 
sung  by  a  barytone — 'Romeo  son  demon' — re,  re,  sol,  sol, 
mi,  re.  The  re  of  'Romeo'  must  be  si  below  the  staff.  The 
key  is  now  two  sharps  instead  of  one  flat — a  trifle  gayer. 
This  kind  barytone  Demot  said  he  did  not  want  to  go 
above  sol. 

"Very  well,  Monsieur  Demot,  you  need  not  fear  high 
notes ;  la  in  alt  is  as  high  as  Monseigneur  Tybalt,  tenor, 
squeaks,  and  you  are  more  than  an  octave  below." 

Having  finished  the  transposition,  Nevere  started  to 
rise  from  his  work.  A  sharp  pain  ran  through  his  arm 
where  he  had  been  wounded  by  the  Apache.  He  crossed 
to  the  window  and  looked  out  upon  the  street.  The 
day  was  rainy  and  the  sky  was  gray.  The  gloom  out- 
side seemed  to  enter  his  soul,  and  sad  thoughts  of  Alver- 
stone's  budding  love  for  the  bright,  young  singer  made 
him  contrast  this  fresh,  young  love  with  that  which  for 
years  had  burned  within  his  own  veins.  His,  though  now 
grown  calm,  was  none  the  less  strong  and  steady.  The 
fitful  hours  had  passed  as  a  course  run  by  the  most  rav^ 
aging  of  fevers,  and  during  its  period  of  delirium  he  had 
raved  in  wildest  incoherency.  The  crisis  had  come  and 
gone,  and  he  was  left  in  calm  serenity,  yet  still  as  ardent 

142 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

a  lover  as  before.  He  foresaw  the  same  for  Alver stone 
if  he  should  find  himself  entangled  in  unrequited  love. 

"I  should  like  to  keep  him  from  going  down  into  the 
pain  of  such  disappointment.  If  he  could  marry  this 
American  nightingale,  it  would  be  all  very  well — but — if 
he  should  be  forced  to  love  her  as  I  have  loved  my  Euro- 
pean nightingale — from  afar,  with  not  a  shade  of  love  for 
any  other  woman — he  will  not  be  so  happy  as  he  should  be 
were  he  to  place  his  affections  where  he  might  hope  for 
a  requital.  Oh !  love !  love !  love !  what  pain,  what 
anguish !  what  never-ending  woe  follows  in  thy  wake  if"- 
—  He  paused  and  dropped  his  forehead  upon  his  open 
palm  as  though  the  anguish  were  more  than  he  could 
endure. 

His  arm  here  recalled  him ;  he  gripped  it  firmly  with 
the  left  hand,  saying  to  himself :  "I  see  I  must  take  care 
of  this  arm ;  if  it  should  grow  much  worse  I  could  not 
play  my  flute,  and  then — what  then  ?  My  position  at  the 
Opera  would  be  given  to  another." 

The  thought  made  him  wince  with  a  sinking  thud  of 
the  heart.  He  could  not  imagine  life  bearable  without 
the  solace  of  those  nights  when  Madame  Cinati  sang 
at  the  Opera  and  he  filled  the  position  of  flutist. 

"Oh,  love !  love !  is  it  possible  that  there  has  ever 
existed  or  ever  shall  exist  a  philosopher  who  can  define 
love — love,  which,  on  the  heights,  arrives  at  a  state  of 
delirium,  in  which  is  found  utmost  completeness  of  the 
mind's  desire — completeness  which  for  calm  and  peace- 
ful, mutual  trust  is  unequalled  by  any  image  words  are 
able  to  paint  of  beatific  visions  of  that  future  state  of 
bliss.  And  then  love,  when  in  the  depths  of  despair — no 
after  state  of  anguish  pictured  in  most  vivid  language 
can  equal  the  torment  endured." 

He  arose  from  his  table  and  paced  rapidly  around  the 
room,  fully  exemplifying  his  idea  of  disappointed  love. 

143 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN  PARIS. 

After  a  time  he  paused  in  front  of  a  window,  and, 
looking  out,  he  saw  a  forlorn  creature  below  upon  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street.  He  had  one  hand  upon  the 
crank  of  a  hurdy-gurdy  and  was  scanning  the  building 
in  front  of  him.  The  practiced  eye  of  one  accustomed 
to  look  for  a  human  being,  if  perchance  a  sympathetic 
chord  might  be  struck,  caught  sight  of  the  artistic  face 
of  Nevere  at  the  casement,  which  he  had  just  opened  to 
feel  if  the  air  were  very  humid. 

If  it  should  be,  he  told  himself  that  his  arm  pained 
because  of  a  tendency  to  rheumatism. 

"Un  petit  sou,  Monsieur"  came  up  from  below. 

"Mercie,  Monsieur"  again  came  from  the  wretched 
being  in  rags  and  tatters,  as  it  looked  at  the  two-sou 
piece  thrown  down  by  Nevere. 

Then  in  gratitude  the  crank  turned,  and  the  hurdy- 
gurdy  began  its  play.  But  what  melody  did  it  sing  out! 
Did  he  know  it?  It  was  madness  to  listen  to  it.  It  was 
the  song  with  which  Madame  Cinati  had  so  often  so 
unconsciously  driven  him  almost  over  the  precipice  of 
despair.  "A  quell  'amor"  He  would  not  hear  it,  but  it 
went  on,  and  Nevere  banged  the  casement  windows  to 
and  locked  them,  as  if  wood  and  glass  were  impenetrable 
by  musical  sound.  Still  he  heard  "misterioso,  misterioso, 
altero."  It  was  a  faint  melody,  now  singing  up  from 
below,  but  it  was  loud  enough  to  Nevere.  He  knew  it 
too  well,  and  the.  tune  was  playing  in  his  brain,  and  it 
sounded  like  strident  clarions  in  his  ears. 

He  flew  to  the  piano  and  tried  to  play  the  music, 
the  transposition  of  which  he  had  just  finished,  but  in 
vain.  All  his  fingers  would  play  was  one  tune,  one  cer- 
tain following  of  notes.  It  formed  a  sweet  ensemble  of 
sound,  but  to  the  flutist  it  was  the  song  of  the  Lorelei. 
It  was  the  song  that  triumphed  in  his  ears;  it  was  the 
keynote  of  a  great  opera.  The  battle  was  won  by  the 

144 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

forces  of  the  past;  for,  as  the  great  scientist  has  said, 
we  are  at  the  mercy  of  our  "hypos,"  and  in  the  case  of 
Nevere  the  "hypo"  of  which  Madame  Cinati  was  the 
immediate  cause  ruled  him  with  an  iron  hand.  He  had 
dreamed  of  this  brilliant  woman;  had  spent  hundreds  of 
hours  in  silent,  almost  motionless  ecstasy  of  contempla- 
tion of  her  power  over  him,  until  often  he  would  have 
furnished  a  very  interesting  example  of  the  hypochon- 
driac. 

He  would  often  conclude  one  of  these  fearful  medita- 
tions with  a  determination  to  seek  medical  aid,  for  he 
would  assure  himself  that  at  least  he  was  sick.  But 
instead  of  calling  to  the  rescue  some  doctor  of  medicine, 
in  wildest  imaginations  he  continued  to  feed  his  ill- 
starred  love.  All  other  women  were  as  little  children 
to  him  when  compared  with  Madame  Cinati;  and  all 
this,  too,  though  she  was  rarely  in  his  presence,  and  less 
often  was  he  able  to  exchange  a  word  with  her. 

The  little  ebony  clock  struck  one,  and  this  recalled 
Nevere  to  the  hour  and  its  duties. 

"One  o'clock,"  he  thought;  "and  at  one-thirty  Lady 
Trent  will  be  here  for  her  sitting."  He  rang  for  his 
butler. 

"Here,  Paul,"  he  said,  for  that  worthy  quickly 
responded  and  ceremoniously  posed,  and  said:  "Mon- 
sieur"— 

"Well,  Paul ;  you  got  the  charcoal?" 

"Oui,  Monsieur." 

"And  the  ochre  and  pastels?"  went  on  Nevere. 

"Oui,  Monsieur,"  again  came  the  answer  of  assent, 
in  a  low,  gentle  voice. 

'"I  saw  the  fruiterer  below  in  the  street  this  morning, 
and  he  had  fine  white  grapes.  Did  you  get  some?" 

"No,  Monsieur;  the  vender  let  the  rich  Americans 
in  the  fine  house  across  the  street  have  them." 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"Not  all?"  said  Nevere. 

"Oui,  Monsieur ;  all — their  butler  took  the  whole  bas- 
ket, and  the  rich  man  stood  in  the  door  and  threw  a  big 
piece  of  gold  at  the  vender  and  told  him  to  keep  it  all." 

"Oh !  la !  la !  la !  la !"  said  Nevere,  in  extreme  disgust. 

The  butler,  thinking  his  master  was  annoyed  at  hav- 
ing no  grapes,  said:  "Monsieur,  I'll  get  you  the  finest 
grapes  in  the  market,  at  Potin's." 

"Oh,  Paul,  that  is  not  it.  I  am  grieved  over  these 
Americans.  They  think  their  money  is  the  best  thing 
in  the  world,  and  they  have  so  much  that  they  throw  it 
around  here  as  if  they  thought  French  people  were  all 
beggars — no  higher  than  the  gamin  of  the  gutters." 

"Oui,  Monsieur,"  meekly  assented  the  butler. 

Nevere  looked  out  of  the  window  and  his  eyes  grew 
very  small  and  the  mouth  seemed  to  iset. 

The  servant  saw  the  fierce  look  and  understood  that 
his  master  was  unhappy.  But  he  did  not  try  to  wonder 
about  the  cause,  for  it  was  an  oft-recurring  expression, 
this  brown  study  of  the  artist. 

"Monsieur,"  timidly  began  the  butler. 

"Well,"  answered  Nevere,  without  changing  his  atti- 
tude. 

"I  heard  something  this  morning.  May  I  tell  Mon- 
sieur?" 

"Is  it  good  news,  Paul?  For  if  it  is  not,  I  do  not 
care  to  hear  it." 

"Oui,  Monsieur,  and  it  will  interest  Monsieur." 

"Very  well,  Paul;  what  is  it?" 

"The  American  girl  who  studies  French  with  Madame 
Lefevre,  on  the  first  floor,  has  just  gotten  a  large  for- 
tune from  America." 

"Ah!  Paul;  are  you  sure?" 

"Oui,  Monsieur,  I  am  quite  sure;  she  is  a  great  heir- 
ess— rich — rich — very  rich." 

146 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

And  Paul  had  great  difficulty  to  restrain  himself 
within  required  bounds  of  decorum,  he  so  longed  to 
gesticulate  as  to  the  size  of  the  fortune. 

Nevere  had  become  much  interested,  and  was  in  dan- 
ger of  betraying  to  one  of  the  serving  class  his  interest 
in  this  American  singer,  as  she  had  come  to  be  called  by 
those  who  knew  her. 

"Do  you  mean  the  young  American  who  studies 
French  with  Madame  on  the  first  floor?"  asked  Nevere, 
endeavoring  to  suppress  his  eagerness  to  know. 

"Yes,   I  mean   that  young  woman." 

"How  did  you  learn  this?" 

"My  cousin  and  I  were  standing  at  the  large  door 
talking  this  morning.  I  was  there  looking  for  another 
fruit  vendor,  when  my  cousin  came  by  and  stopped.  The 
Mademoiselle  passed  through  the  door  and  went  on  in,  to 
her  teacher.  My  cousin  said  to  me,  'That  young  woman 
was  in  the  office  of  my  employer,  Monsieur  La  Blanche, 
this  morning.  She  came  in  with  the  opera  singer,  Mad- 
ame Cinati;  and  after  they  had  gone  out  of  the  office  I 
overheard  Monsieur  La  Blanche  say  to  his  secretary  that 
this  young  woman  with  the  opera  singer  had  inherited 
a  great  fortune  in  America ;  that  she  was  one  of  the  rich- 
est women  in  the  world ;  that  she  owned  three  large  gold 
mines  in  California.'  That,  Monsieur,  is  what  my  cousin 
said." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  this.  The  Mademoiselle  is  very 
deserving.  There,  go,  Paul." 

Nevere  was  cut  short,  for  the  ringing  of  the  bell 
called  Paul  to  his  duty. 

"Ah,  indeed,"  thought  Nevere,  when  he  found  him- 
self alone.  "A  fortune;  I  hope  it  is  true.  Then  this 
Alverstone  might  be  able  to  win  the  fair  damsel  away 
from  her  career,  as  they  put  it.  True,  these  singers  sing 
for  art's  sake ;  but  often,  too,  for  the  money  that  is  in  it." 

147 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

For  his  part,  Nevere  loved  his  work,  his  art,  far  too 
much  to  desire  the  care  of  much  money.  His  work, 
which  he  loved  as  a  part  of  himself,  brought  him  good 
returns  in  a  substantial  price  for  every  portrait  painted 
by  him,  and  he  cared  not  to  dazzle  the  world  by  any  vul- 
gar display  of  money;  so,  of  course,  as  far  as  wealth 
was  concerned,  he  was  content — no  man  was  richer.  His 
art — his  delight  in  the  beauties  of  the  world  and  his  enjoy- 
ments of  those  pleasures  which  were  to  his  taste  made  his 
wealth  far  greater  than  that  of  the  owners  of  the  largest 
gold  mines  in  the  world. 

He  looked  out  at  the  sky  through  the  window  and 
observed  that  the  clouds  were  chasing  one  another  rap- 
•  idly,  which  bespoke  a  fair  afternoon.  And  that  it  would 
be  better  for  the  portrait  of  Lady  Trent. 

"Lady  Trent  to  see  Monsieur  Nevere,"  said  the  but- 
ler, who  had  entered  softly. 

"Show  her  ladyship  into  the  studio,  and  I'll  be  there 
presently." 

Lady  Trent  had  come  to  know  Etienne  Nevere  under 
most  favorable  circumstances,  for  her  sister,  the  Princesse 
de  Loire,  had  often  insisted  that  she,  Lady  Trent,  give 
Monsieur  Nevere  a  sitting,  and  she  had  visited  the  artist's 
studio,  and  often  thought  she  would  do  so,  but  as  yet 
she  had  had  no  picture  painted  by  Etienne  Nevere. 

On  the  morning  after  the  Trent  reception  Lieutenant 
Trent  had  told  his  mother  of  the  man  attacked  by  the 
Apache.  Lady  Trent  had  been  pleased  to  remember  that 
this  man  was  the  same  who  had  painted  those  portraits, 
most  highly  prized  of  the  long  lines  of  ancestors  on  the 
walls  of  the  house  of  the  Prince  de  Loire,  in  which  the 
Trents  were  then  staying.  And  she  had  pointed  out  to 
her  son  certain  portraits  which  Nevere  had  painted.  Then 
it  had  been  decided  to  visit  Monsieur  Nevere  in  the  after- 
noon of  that  same  day,  and  it  had  pleased  Nevere  to 

148 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

arrange  for  a  sitting  for  Lady  Trent  on  the  following 
afternoon. 

When  Lady  Trent  had  suggested  to  her  son  that  he 
accompany  her  to  the  artist's,  he  had  very  readily  con^ 
sented  to  do  so.  She  had  been  delighted  with  this  ready 
compliance,  but  she  had  been  far  from  delighted  had  she 
known  the  secret  spring  of  assent. 

Trent  was  a  soldier,  and  adventurous  therefrom.  A 
woman  like  Madame  Nitolsk  fed  this  wild  strain,  and  he 
thought  that  she  might  be  there,  since  Nevere  did  work 
for  her. 

Though  Trent  was  free  to  call  at  the  house  of  Mad- 
ame Nitolsk,  he  enjoyed  this  possible  meeting,  since  he 
was  anxious  that  -his  mother  meet  her  as  often  as  possi- 
ble. Trent  was  truly  grateful  for  the  protection  given 
him  from  the  Sepoys,  but  he  was  equally  grateful  that 
Monsieur  Nitolsk's  widow  was  here  in  Paris. 

He  knew  she  was  not  acceptable  to  his  mother,  but 
he  thought  that  were  they  thrown  more  together  it 
might  come  to  be  different. 

The  studio  of  Etienne  Nevere  was  much  to  the  liking 
of  Lady  Trent,  for  an  air  of  delicate  refinement  pervaded 
the  entire  atmosphere,  whether  taken  in  its  separateness 
or  as  a  whole.  Then,  too,  she  liked  Nevere.  He  pleased 
her  very  much,  indeed,  for  several  reasons,  not  the  least 
of  which  was  the  fact  that  he  was  flutist  for  Maestro 
Novara.  In  this  capacity,  while  accompanying  Julia 
Pembroke,  he  would  know  something  of  her,  and  Lady 
Trent  had  no  little  hope  that  Reginald,  her  son,  might 
be  led  to  consider  this  American  girl  as  a  type  o-f  woman 
preferred  by  his  mother  above  all  others. 

She  knew  her  son  would  be  present  during  some 
part  of  her  sitting,  and  she  would  be  sure  to  lead  the 
conversation  toward  Julia  when  Reginald  should  be  there. 
She  was  devoured,  so  to  say,  with  the  desire  to  see  him 

149 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

the  husband  of  some  serious-minded  woman,  one  who 
would  do  for  his  home  what  she  herself  had  done  for  the 
home  of  his  father,  Lord  Trent — guard  its  sacred  pre- 
cincts, shield  its  innocence  and  purity  from  attacking 
wolves  of  society,  besides  dispensing  its  hospitality  upon 
the  worthy. 

When  shown  into  the  studio  Lady  Trent  had  seated 
herself  upon  a  divan,  and,  from  her  point  of  view,  the 
effect  of  the  whole  was  exceedingly  beautiful.  While 
enjoying  the  beauty  ensemble  of  the  room  her  attention 
was  suddenly  arrested.  She  found  herself  intently  gazing 
into  two  large  and  strangely  captivating  black  eyes.  They 
were  only  the  eyes  of  a  little  child,  some  three  or  four 
years  of  age,  but  Lady  Trent  was  powerless  to  look  away 
from  the  wondrous  eyes.  She  was  a  mother  at  heart, 
as  well  as  by  right  of  sex,  and  something  in  those  deep, 
deep  eyes  of  the  child's  portrait  spoke,  to  her,  appealed 
to  the  mother  within  her. 

She  arose  and  crossed  to  where  the  portrait  rested 
upon  an  easel.  As  she  stood  before  the  canvas,  smiling 
and  lost  in  communion  with  the  spirit  pent  up  within 
that  lovely  child,  whose  beautiful  soul  spoke  touchingly 
through  his  large,  soft  eyes,  the  door  opened  and  Nevere 
entered. 

"Good  morning,  Lady  Trent,"  said  Nevere,  crossing 
to  her,  and,  with  due  ceremony,  taking  the  hand  Lady 
Trent  held  out  to  him.  "I  am  sorry  to  keep  you  waiting." 

"Do  not  fear  for  me,  Monsieur  Nevere,"  replied  Lady 
Trent.  "Did  you  not  see  my  delight  in  listening  to  the 
many  pretty  things  that  child  yonder  has  been  telling 
me?" 

"You  like  it,  then?"  asked  Nevere,  pleased,  as  artists 
are  with  an  admirer  of  a  work  which  to  them  stands  for 
more  than  the  ordinary  portrait. 

150 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"I  love  it — the  most  beautiful  countenance  I  have  ever 
seen,"  replied  Lady  Trent.  "The  curls,"  she  continued, 
"are  caressingly  tender,  yet  seem  to  partake  of  the 
severity  of  dignity  that  holds  one  as  strongly  as  do  those 
wondrous  gazelle  eyes." 

"Yes,  I  agree  with  you,  Lady  Trent,"  replied  Nevere. 

"I  should  not  ask,  is  the  child  as  beautiful  as  the 
portrait?  for  I  know  that  Monsieur  Nevere  makes  only 
perfect  copies." 

Lady  Trent  had  a  most  happy  manner  of  being  deli- 
cate and  tactful  on  all  occasions. 

"No,"  gently  objected  the  artist.  "I  have  made  him 
no  more  beautiful  than  he  is." 

"May  I  ask  the  name?" 

"He  is  the  little  son  of  Madame  Nitolsk." 

"The  widow  from  India?" 

"Yes,  that  is  her  child." 

"I  did  not  know  she  had  a  child." 

"Yes,  but  he  is  older  than  that  now.  I  painted  that 
four  years  ago,  and  I  painted  the  mother  then,  too.  She 
was  in  Paris  with  her  husband,  and  I  painted  these  two, 
but  could  not  finish  the  father,  before  he  was  called 
home  to  Calcutta.  Here  is  the  mother  at  that  time." 
And  as  he  lifted  the  Oriental  silk  drapery  from  before 
the  large  life-sized  portrait  upon  an  easel  standing  just 
behind  the  portrait  of  little  Adino,  Lady  Trent's  face 
took  on  a  very  different  expression  from  that  worn 
at  the  meeting  of  little  Adino. 

"She  is  a  very  different  type  from  her  child,  you 
see,"  began  Nevere.  "The  child  has  the  large  eye,  with 
other  features  suiting,  and  the  most  delicately  sensitive 
mouth,  while  the  mother,  though  also  dark,  has  the 
almond-shaped  eye,  with  corresponding  features.  The 
mouth,  minus  all  sensitiveness — small,  clear-cut  and  firm." 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

"How  well  you  artists  read  the  face." 

Nevere  laughed  in  reply,  and,  after  adjusting  his 
easel  to  suit  the  position  of  Lady  Trent,  he  said:  "When 
I  began  my  work  as  an  artist  I  saw  nothing  but  lines, 
lines,  lines,  on  every  side;  when  I  took  my  daily  airing 
or  joined  my  fellows  at  the  club  or  in  a  cafe,  I  often  felt 
myself  at  such  a  loss  to  understand  the  meaning  of  the 
word  face  that  I  feared  my  reason  was  departing.  I 
saw  no  faces,  saw  no  persons;  I  saw  only  lines,  creases, 
shadows,  lights,  repose,  action." 

Then  he  paused,  both  in  his  talk  and  in  his  work, 
while  he  stepped  back  from  his  easel  and  surveyed  the 
master  strokes  he  had  already  put  upon  the  canvas. 
Then  he  continued  as  he  worked  again:  "Just  as  now,  I 
am  searching  for  the  values,  as  we  term  them  in  the 
language  of  our  art — yes,  I  am  searching  for  the  values, 
which  are  to  make  this  portrait  of  Lady  Trent  exactly 
what  Lady  Trent  would  have  it  to  be.  For  years  I 
suffered  so  much  from  this  pain  of  seeing  no  face  as 
a  face  that  I  feared  I  could  not  enjoy  life  and  be  a 
portrait  painter." 

"But  you  do  not  experience  this  difficulty  now?" 
observed  Lady  Trent. 

"Ah,  no,  indeed,  Lady  Trent ;  I  am  quite  a  normal 
being  now.  I  think  my  trouble  in  accommodating  myself 
to  the  requirements  of  this  line  of  work  lay  in  my  over- 
anxiety  to  gain  time.  That  is  generally  the  case  with 
young  artists,  and  the  intenser  the  nature,  the  intenser 
the  degree  of  assiduity  with  which  the  student  applies 
himself.  There!  will  you  come  here,  Lady  Trent?" 

Nevere  had  a  habit  of  calling  away  his  models  at 
any  moment,  and  to  this  he  attributed  his  rare  skill  in 
making  portraits  of  undeniable  naturalness,  for  no  por- 
trait of  Nevere's  painting  was  found  stiff,  cold  or  life- 
less. 

152 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

After  Lady  Trent  had  looked  with  approval  upon 
the  outline  of  herself,  he  perfected  her  pose  again  and 
began  anew  to  work  and  to  talk. 

"You  are  a  little  stern,  for  you,  Lady  Trent,"  he 
made  observation.  "Please  allow  your  eyes  to  rest  upon 
the  face  of  little  Adino.  There,  that  is  good.  I  thought 
that  would  rub  out  that  unnatural  line.  It  is  gone,  and 
the  result  is  fine. 

He  laughed  good-humoredly,  and  Lady  Trent  smiled 
a  little. 

"I  am  glad  you  advised  looking  at  Adino.  Looking 
at  him  makes  one  happy.  I  should  like  to  be  taken  that 
way,"  and  she  smiled  again. 

"There,  you  looked  extra  fine  when  you  wore  that 
smile.  I  must  catch  the  light  with  which  this  smile 
illumines  the  face.  We  don't  want  the  maternal  over- 
developed in  the  face,  either,  and  this  is  my  specialty, 
working  for  different  shadings — different  values — so 
that  I  have  the  entire  personality,  and  not  a  one-sided 
portrait.  In  classes  where  I  studied  I  have  known  the 
model  to  sit  facing  the  strong  light,  and  no  mercy  shown, 
for  what  should  have  been  a  smooth  forehead  would  be 
creased  with  light-wrinkled  frowns.  Neither  does  one 
want  to  have  a  set  gaze,  else  the  portrait  is  likely  to 
remind  one  of  the  appearance  of  Carlysle,  whose  por- 
traits give  the  impression  that  he  is  looking  at  some- 
thing hidden  far  away  in  some  forgotten  corner  of  his 
brain." 

"Pardon,  Monsieur,  I  wish  to  remark  that  little  Adino 
bears  himself  like  a  prince." 

"His  grandmother  was  the  Principessa  di  Turinna." 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  Lady  Trent,  in  genuine  sur- 
prise ;  "I  have  often  heard  of  that  family.  I  do  not 
understand.  Madame  Nitolsk  is  not  an  Italian." 

153 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"Really,  Lady  Trent,  I  do  not  know.  I  often  tried, 
during  my  work  on  her  portrait,  to  gain  some  knowl- 
edge of  herself  and  her  family,  but  she  allowed  me  not 
the  slightest  clue.  If  you  are  tired,  Lady  Trent,  you 
can  be  seated  and  rest,  for  I  can  work  here  without 
you  some  little  time." 

"I  am  not  tired;  I  think  I  shall  keep  my  pose." 

"When  I  was  fifteen  years  old,"  said  Nevere,  "I 
studied  in  Rome.  I  was  a  kind  of  helper  in  the  studio 
of  that  famous  artist,  Suido.  He  painted  portraits  of 
members  of  the  royal  families,  from  all  parts  of  Europe, 
and  some  for  the  great  rulers  of  the  Orient.  Among 
his  patrons  were  several  of  the  Turinna  family,  and  I 
remember  well  when  the  Principessa,  their  only  daughter, 
came  into  the  studio.  She  was  nineteen  years  old.  She 
was  very  beautiful." 

"She  must  have  been  beautiful/'  interrupted  Lady 
Trent,  "if  this  child  resembles  her." 

"Yes,  Adino  resembles  her  very,  very  much;  perhaps 
when  he  is  nineteen  years  old  he  will  resemble  her,  quite. 
She  was  as  amiable  in  disposition  as  beautiful  in  form 
and  face.  She  was  the  delight  of  her  parents  and  the 
fond  pride  of  her  adoring  brothers.  It  was  a  fine  sight 
to  see  those  four  brothers  vying  with  one  another  in 
their  endeavors  to  do  her  homage." 

"But  how  did  she  come  to  marry  a  Russian?"  asked 
Lady  Trent,  eager  to  get  to  the  point  that  held  most 
interest  for  ladies  of  her  type — the  irregularity — an  Ital- 
ian and  an  untitled  Russian. 

"Ah!  Lady  Trent,  the  same  sad  story — she  eloped 
with  him ;  and  for  this  unfilial  act — she  had  never  so 
much  as  expressed  to  any  of  her  friends  the  slightest 
fondness  for  the  man — she  was  disowned  by  her  family, 
and  society  entirely  ostracized  her.  For  two  years  I 
knew  nothing  of  the  beautiful  princess;  she  was  never 

154 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

seen  in  public  after.  But  one  day  on  the  Corso  I  saw 
a  nurse  pushing  a  cab  with  a  little  child  in  it.  That 
child  was  the  father  of  little  Adino." 

"That  little  child,"  energetically  interjected  Lady 
Trent,"  grew  to  be  a  brave  and  noble  man." 

The  thought  of  the  service  rendered  her  in  saving  the 
life  of  her  darling  Reginald,  swept  wave-like  across  her, 
and  as  she  pictured  the  horror  in  death  at  the  hands  of 
those  heathen  Sepoys,  Nevere  again  suggested  rest.  Lady 
Trent  walked  over  to  look  at  the  part  of  herself  upon 
the  canvas,  and  expressed  herself  satisfied  with  the  result 
of  the  deft  hand  of  Monsieur  Etienne  Nevere.  Then  she 
sat  down  to  relax  a  few  moments,  for,  though  fitted  by 
physical  strength  to  be  the  mother  of  the  brave  Lieuten- 
ant, her  portrait  would  be  the  better  for  an  intermission 
of  relaxation. 

"The  banker  Nitolsk  must  have  been  of  the  old  Ro- 
man type,"  observed  Lady  Trent,  in  continuation. 

"Yes,  he  was  a  perfect  copy  of  his  mother." 

"Oh!  I  see,  and  this  little  child,  Adino,  resembles  his 
father  and  his  maternal  grandmother — the  Roman  blood 
predominates  right  through,"  said  Lady  Trent,  thought- 
fully. 

"It  is  a  strange  blood,"  said  Nevere,  "this  Roman 
blood.  People  speak  of  the  dying  out  of  the  Roman 
blood,  but  their  observations  and  deductions  are  not  care- 
fully made,  I  am  quite  sure." 

While  resting,  Lady  Trent  narrated  to  Nevere  the 
rescue  of  her  son  by  the  financier,  Nitolsk. 

"Ah,"  said  Nevere,  tenderly,  "that  is  like  the  banker's 
Roman  ancestry ;  they  were  nobles." 

"I  wish,"  said  Lady  Trent,  "that  his  life  might  have 
been  spared." 

"You  know  of  his  death?"  asked  Nevere,  cautiously. 

155 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

"Yes,  I  have  the  story  as  told  by  Madame  Nitolsk  to 
my  son,  and  as  reported  in  the  papers  at  the  time  of  his 
death,"  and  Lady  Trent  detailed  how  he  had  been  found 
dead  of  heart  failure. 

"That  is  the  same  as  the  account  contained  in  the 
'Figaro'  at  the  time — something  over  a  year  ago." 

"Sudden  death  must  be  horrible,  indeed/'  said  Lady 
Trent.  "Now  I  think  I  shall  take  my  position  again. 
Do  you  ever  play  for  Miss  Pembroke?"  asked  Lady 
Trent. 

"Yes,  Lady  Trent,  I  do;  and  I  am  always  glad  to 
accompany  her,"  replied  Nevere. 

"I  presume  you  find  her  quite  a  singer." 

"Yes,  she  has  a  beautiful  voice  and  she  is  a  thorough 
artist.  She  and  my  flute  are  rivals." 

At  this  juncture  the  hanging  across  the  entrance  to 
the  studio  was  parted  by  the  butler,  and  Lieutenant  Trent 
entered  without  announcement.  After  he  had  passed 
through  he  stopped  and  gave  his  mother  a  military  salute, 
saying  just  one  word — "Mother." 

Had  Nevere  not  stood  quiet  before  his  picture,  and  in 
the  attitude  of  admiration  of  mother  and  son,  he  had 
found  that  maternal  fondness  and  motherly  pride  had  a 
monopoly  of  the  lights  and  shadows  which  rested  at  that 
moment,  and  steadily  upon  the  countenance  of  Lady 
Trent. 

But  who  could  work  during  the  entrance  of  the  hand- 
some young  English  officer! 

After  the  loving  recognition  shown  the  mother,  he 
advanced  toward  Nevere,  who  would  not  approach  him 
while  in  the  discharge  of  a  loving  filial  duty — no,  loving 
filial  privilege — which  was  for  him  fraught  with  so  much 
gracious  tenderness,  extended  his  hand,  and  the  cus- 
tomary salutations  of  such  men  passed  between  the  two. 

"You  are  suffering  less,  I  hope,"  said  Trent,  as  he 

156 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

walked  toward  the  seat  to  which  Nevere  invited  him, 
but  beside  which  he  only  stood,  laying  his  right  hand 
upon  the  back.  His  mother  was  standing  for  her  life- 
sized  portrait,  and  were  he  at  this  time  to  sit  upon  the 
chair,  Lieutenant  Trent  would  never  respect  Lieutenant 
Trent  for  so  great  a  breach  of  etiquette,  not  to  mention 
the  hurt  to  filial  devotion,  which  for  his  mother  he  had 
in  the  highest  degree. 

"I  suffer  little  except  for  the  sudden  stitches  in  my 
arm,  thank  you/'  answered  Nevere,  as  he  resumed  his 
work  on  the  portrait.  "A  little  more  to  the  left,  Lady 
Trent.  There,  that  is  better.  Keep  that  just  a  little, 
please;  I  like  that  pose  of  the  head." 

"Mother,"  said  Trent,  "I  saw  Miss  Pembroke  in  a 
cab  on  Champs  Elysees." 

"No  doubt,  my  son;  this  is  her  lesson  hour." 

"She  had  a  large  bunch  of  roses  lying  upon  her  lap, 
and,  mother,  she  a.nd  the  roses  were  exactly  of  the  same 
tint." 

"She  has  a  real  English  complexion,"  replied  Lady 
Trent. 

She  was  much  pleased  that  her  son  had  noticed  this 
Miss  Pembroke,  for,  though  a  tiny  straw,  it  thus  far 
showed  the  direction  of  the  current  of  his  mind. 

Nevere  went  to  the  window  and  changed  the  curtain 
drawn  across  for  one  of  a  very  delicate  rose,  saying: 
"It  makes  little  difference  about  these  curtains  at  this 
stage  of  the  work,  but  I  like  to  see  the  effect  in  shading, 
if  I  am  only  in  the  charcoal  period." 

Just  as  Nevere  again  worked,  Trent  said:  "Mother, 
as  I  left  home  this  afternoon,  a  few  steps  from  our  door 
I  met  Madame  Nitolsk." 

That  Lady  Trent  was  far  from  pleased  with  the 
mention  of  this  name  by  her  son,  and  in  one  of  his  hap- 
piest veins,  Nevere  read  in  the  zigzag  lines  of  the  inter- 

157 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

mezzo  between  the  two  acts  of  repose.  He  waited  for 
the  emotion  to  pass,  and  for  the  time  of  the  second 
repose,  by  taking  his  box  and  knife  from  a  stand  near 
by  and  sharpening  his  charcoal,  but  the  time  of  sharp- 
ening was  perforce  long  drawn  out,  for  Lieutenant 
Trent  went  on:  "She  is  a  handsome  woman,  mother." 

Nevere  pretended  to  look  at  his  easel  and  then  at 
Lady  Trent,  and  again  at  his  work  upon  the  easel,  pre- 
sumably for  purposes  of  artistic  comparison,  but  in  real- 
ity to  see  the  regard  in  which  Lady  Trent  held  the  name 
of  Madame  Nitolsk;  and,  though  a  very  conservative 
man,  he  inwardly  admired  the  excellent  judgment  of 
Lady  Trent  in  preferring  her  son's  acquaintanceship  with 
Miss  Pembroke  to  his  notice  of  Madame  Nitolsk.  Yes, 
he  would  tell  the  bit  of  servant  gossip. 

"Permit  me,"  said  Nevere,  laying  aside  the  basket 
in  which  he  kept  his  charcoal  refuse.  "There,  Lady 
Trent,  a  little  to  the  right  again,  please;  I  want  that 
shadow  on  the  hair.  If  you  will  listen,  I  can  entertain 
you  with  something  apropos  of  that  young  American 
singer." 

"Miss  Pembroke?"  asked  Lady  Trent. 

"Yes,  Miss  Pembroke,"  said  Nevere.  "I  should  not 
call  her  the  singer,  but  at  Maestro  Novara's  she  is  called 
the  American  singer." 

"Go  on,  my  man,"  put  in  Trent;  "we  are  not  averse 
to  a  bit  of  news,  if  it  should  be  only  gossip — that  is  sol- 
dierly," he  added,  and  he  concluded  with  a  soldier's 
merry  laugh. 

"Well,"  said  Nevere,  "I  heard  to-day  that  Miss  Pem- 
broke has  just  fallen  heir  to  a  very  large  fortune — a 
fortune  that  makes  her  one  of  the  richest  women  in  the 
world." 

"Truly !"  exclaimed  Lady  Trent,  who  had  lost  herself 
enough  to  have  turned  entirely  around,  and  now  stood 

158 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

facing  the  artist,  who  also  stood  facing  his  model  and 
smiling  at  Lady  Trent,  and  then  at  Lieutenant  Trent. 
The  latter,  while  betraying  little  emotion,  was  yet  visibly 
pleased  with  the  news. 

"That  is  excellent  for  her,"  said  Trent. 

Though  Lady  Trent  had  uttered  but  the  one  word — 
"Truly" — it  was  so  strongly  exclaimed  that  Nevere  knew 
it  bore  much  of  importance  to  Lady  Trent.  But  had  he 
known  nothing  of  this,  the  elasticity  enlivening  the  mus- 
cles of  her  face  and  form  had  sufficed  for  a  correct  read- 
ing of  the  delight  Lady  Trent  felt  at  news  of  the  for- 
tune of  Julia  Pembroke.  Nevere  glanced  at  his  drawing 
and  then  at  Lady  Trent,  and  thought  what  wonderful 
effects  delight,  happiness  and  all  kindred  emotions  can 
produce  upon  the  human  organization.  He  also  thought 
it  a  happy  arrangement  in  the  economy  of  things,  that 
the  artist  was  free  to  catch  any  mood  he  chose  while 
producing  lights  and  shadows  with  his  colors.  He  was 
a  great  artist,  and  worked  subjectively  as  well  as  objec- 
tively. 

His  eye  traveled  to  Trent  and  rested  quietly  upon 
him  while  he  asked:  "Had  you  heard  it,  Lieutenant?" 

"No,  I  had  not;  I  hope  it  is  true.  May  I  ask  where 
you  learned  it?" 

"You  may  ask,  but  I  am  not  proud  to  tell  you  that 
I  have  only  two  servants  as  authority;  yet  I  am  happy 
to  give  you  the  exact  account,  as  I  learned  it." 

Then  Nevere  related  all  his  servant,  Paul,  had  given 
him,  after  which  he  playfully  added:  "If  I  were  of  her 
day  and  generation,  I  think  I  should  lay  siege  to  her 
heart." 

Trent  laughed  and  then  said:  "What  matters  the 
disparity  of  a  few  years." 

"No,  not  for  me,"  answered  Nevere.  "No  real  hap- 
piness ever  came  from  a  marriage  between  generations, 

159 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

whether  that  were  the  first  or  the  sixth  or  any  generation 
or  fractional  generation  between.  I  have  noticed  that 
there  are  enough  griefs  when  the  contracting  parties 
are  of  the  same  generation;  but,  alas!  when  otherwise, 
it  is  always  true  that  the  younger  companion  languishes, 
pines,  dies  or  divorces." 

And  had  he  and  Lieutenant  Trent  been  alone,  he 
had  added  that  other  condition,  obtaining  most  fre- 
quently in  these  unnatural  marriages. 

"Sometimes  the  old  have  better  physique  and  more 
vigor  than  the  younger,"  opposed  Trent.  "I  mean  to 
live  to  a  good  old  age  and  be  hale  and  hearty.  See!" 
and  he  straightened  himself  as  if  on  duty  in  a  dress 
parade,  with  the  finished  buoyancy  of  the  touch  of  his 
left  palm  upon  the  hilt  of  his  old  English  sword. 

"It  is  certainly  a  happy  view  that  you  take  of  the 
inevitable  ravages  of  Father  Time,"  observed  Nevere, 
for  sure  he  felt  that  one  of  his  weak  physical  organiza- 
tion could  not  hope  for  more  than  his  three  score  years 
and  ten. 

"Well,  I  am  a  better  soldier  when  I  entertain  this 
view  of  longevity." 

"Ah,  a  philosopher,  I  see!"  the  artist  mused,  half  to 
himself. 

"No,  I  am  not  a  philosopher;  I  am  only  a  soldier, 
nothing  more." 

'Terhaps  you  are  right,"  commented  Nevere,  "but 
I'll  wager  you  are  something  more  than  a  soldier." 

"Something  more  than  a  soldier!"  ejaculated  Trent, 
almost  indignantly,  for  he  was  proud  of  his  soldier  char- 
acter, and  for  the  title  of  English  soldier  he  would  have 
suffered  most  savage  torture;  for  to  him  nothing  was 
superior  to  the  private  in  the  rank  and  file,  except  it 
were  the  officer  who  led  the  private  on  to  victory  or 
helped  him  to  endure  defeat. 

160 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

It  is  a  very  impressive  fact  that  the  bond  of  love 
existing  between  the  soldiers,  who,  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
guard  and  protect  the  interests  and  institutions  of  a  coun- 
try, is  a  bond  inseverable. 

Nevere  explained  himself  no  more  fully,  and  Trent 
asked:  "Nevere,  what  am  I  that  is  more  than  a  soldier?" 

"A  man,"  replied  Nevere  calmly;  then,  looking 
askance  at  Trent,  he  said,  with  an  interrogative,  though 
kindly  smile  and  intonation :  "You  know  what  it  is  to  be 
a  man  ?  I  shall  answer  for  you,  and  say,  'Certainly  I  do.' 
Then  I  ask  you  again  which  is  greater,  to  be  a  man  or 
to  be  a  soldier?" 

An  hour  later  a  handsome  landau,  drawn  by  a  splen- 
did span  of  black  horses,  dashed  off  the  Boulevard 
Malesherbes.  In  the  landau  were  Lady  Trent  and  her 
son,  on  their  return  from  the  studio  o£  Nevere. 

"Ah,"  said  Lady  Trent,  "I  can  not  exactly  explain 
why,  but  I  have  always  felt  that  this  Julia  Pembroke 
was  more  than  an. ordinary  American  girl." 

"Yes,  mother;  I  have  heard  you  make  that  observa- 
tion before." 

"She  must  be  a  descendant  of  some  early  English 
colonist  to  the  States — some  member  of  a  titled  family, 
who  perhaps  went  to  the  gold  fields  of  California. 
I  am  glad  she  has  gotten  this  fortune.  I  should  prefer 
seeing  her  married  than  a  singer,  for  she  seems  peculiarly 
fitted  to  make  an  efficient  wife." 

Then  she  looked  out  at  the  side  of  the  carriage  on 
which  her  boy  sat,  that  she  might  see  if  he  was  espe- 
cially interested,  and  she  thought  that  he  was.  Trent 
was  fearless  as  he  was  brave,  and  if  he  himself  had 
known  his  mind  regarding  Julia,  he  would  quickly  have 
told  his  mother  the  exact  situation.  As  it  was,  he  only 
remained  quiet. 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"You  have  met  thousands  of  young  women,  my  son. 
Have  you  never  thought  that  you  preferred  one  woman 
above  others?" 

"No,  mother  dear,  1  have  never  found  a  woman  like 
my  mother,  and  I  can  not  marry  until  I  do.  I  enjoy  the 
society  of  many  ladies  of  many  nationalities,  but  I  have 
yet  to  find  the  woman  whom  I  could  love  and  at  the  same 
time  ask  you,  mother  dear,  to  accept  as  your  daughter." 

While  saying  this  he  held  his  mother's  hand  with  a 
lover's  warmth  of  feeling,  and  when  he  had  finished 
speaking  he  kissed  it  reverently. 

"Ah!  you  must  not  look  for  perfection,  my  son,  and 
I  do  think  that  at  your  age  it  is  natural  you  should 
begin  to  take  upon  yourself  the  duties,  the  honors  and 
the  privileges  of  all  who  organize  that  little  community — 
the  home — which  is  the  unit  upon  the  collection  of  which 
units  our  kingdom  is  built  and  maintained." 

"Yes,  mother;  I  have  often  thought  to  attempt,  but 
I  have  always  deferred,  until  I  feel  inadequate  to  the 
cause." 

"It  is  a  great  cause,  my  child,  and  should  receive 
your  careful  consideration.  I  hope  during  this  visit 
home  you  may  find  some  congenial  young  woman  who 
may  become  the  wife  of  my  Reginald." 

"I'll  try,  mother." 

"Very  well,  my  son;  that  is  all  you  can  do;  but  do 
not  be  too  particular." 

"Mother,  I  want  a  wife  who  will  fill  the  position  of 
wife  to  the  soldier  Trent." 

"She  need  not  be  different  from  the  woman  who 
would  fill  the  position  of  wife  of  Reginald  Trent,  were 
he  Lord  Trent." 

"No,  I  understand,  mother,  but" — 
162 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"God  bless  you,  my  boy,  and  may  you  choose  your 
wife  with  as  much  discretion  as  a  general  would  his 
forces  for  duty  at  a  most  valued  position." 

"What  if  I  should  choose  an  American,  mother?" 

Lady  Trent  looked  at  him  quickly,  but  his  face  was 
smiling  broadly,  and  she  judged  it  to  be  only  a  pleas- 
antry, such  as  those  in  which  he  frequently  indulged. 

"It  might  not  be  objectionable,"  she  replied;  "but  I 
think  our  dear,  little,  all-sufficient  island  has  upon  it 
some  sweet  English  maiden,  whose  charms  and  whose 
character  can  not  but  satisfy  the  most  exacting  demands 
Reginald  Trent  and  his  mother  may  make." 

"Don't  be  uneasy,  mother ;  I  have  no  relish  for  Amer- 
ican women — unless  they  come  to  Europe,  and  profit  when 
they  do  come.  As  they  are  in  the  raw  state,  I  have  never 
seen  one  who  was  not  snobbish,  or  silly,  or  coarse,  when 
not  vulgar." 

"Oh,  Reginald;  what  do  you  think  of  Julia  Pem- 
broke?" 

"Julia  is  different — she  came  to  Europe,  has  lived 
here  six  years  and  has  profited  under  the  influence  and 
customs  of  the  polite  society  of  Europe — and,  mother,  I 
judge  she  owes  much  of  her  success  in  correct  deport- 
ment to  the  advice  of  Madame  Cinati,  who  would  tell 
her  something  as  to  how  she  should  deport  herself." 

"My  son,  Julia  Pembroke  has  studied  etiquette  in  the 
finest  convent  in  Europe,  and  she  still  goes  there  every 
week.  She  knows  Baronne  Staffe's  book  on  etiquette 
from  beginning  to  end. 

"Well,  mother,  I  think  favorably  of  Miss  Pembroke, 
but  I  had  not  given  her  the  slightest  consideration  in  the 
light  of  a  possible  successor  to  my  mother." 

"I  am  quite  sure  that  for  some  unaccountable  reason 
I  am  particularly  pleased  with  her,  and  now,  should  she 
be  as  rich  as  Monsieur  has  heard,  she  is  certainly  a  mag- 

163 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

net  for  some  aspiring  child  of  the  titled  world.  Her 
wealth  may  bolster  up  some  poor,  decayed  estate,  if  the 
family  itself  is  beyond  reclaim,  and,  in  return,  Julia 
can  have  a  twinkling  coronet,  with  all  its  encumberments, 
which,  to  a  cultivated  American  girl  of  Julia  Pembroke's 
type,  would  be  worse  than  death/'  commented  Lady 
Trent. 

"I  may  see  fit  to  offer  her  mine,  before  some  other 
European,  less  fortunate  than  myself,  succeeds  in  selling 
his  trumpery  to  her."  And  Trent  laughed  at  his  gar- 
rulity, lightly  given. 

Lady  Trent  smiled,  and  said,  thoughtfully:  "We  will 
look  around  among  our  own  people  first;  afterwards  we 
may  consider  our  kith  from  beyond  the  sea.  Now  I 
shall  run  up  to  see  Julia  and  hear  from  her  the  truth  or 
falsity  of  Nevere's  bit  of  news." 

"Very  well,  mother ;  I'll  not  go." 

The  carriage  had  driven  in  at  the  great  gates,  and 
the  footman  had  opened  the  door.  Trent  got  out  and 
gave  Julia's  number,  and  the  beautiful  dull-black  crea- 
tures pranced  gaily  around  the  pink  marble  fountain  in 
the  center  of  the  court,  then  out  as  the  iron  doors  swung 
back  for  their  exit. 

Trent  lit  his  choice  Havana  and  drew  up  a  cozy  arm- 
chair close  to  the  pretty  little  fire,  blazing  upon  the  care- 
fully tended  hearth,  all  the  while  thinking:  "With  a 
mother  brave  enough  to  lead  her  son  as  my  mother  led 
me  to  think  of  my  duty  as  an  Englishman,  I  am  safe. 
Such  a  woman  can  not  have  a  foolish  son.  She  did  it 
so  sweetly,  so  gently,  yet  so  certainly,  that  I  was  led 
to  thinking  seriously  upon  the  subject  without  at  all  sus- 
pecting she  was  learning  just  where  and  how  I  stood 
with  regard  to  my  choice  of  a  life  companion.  Mother, 
mother,  I  shall  never  betray  your  trust  in  me.  I  shall 
marry  a  woman  of  whom  you  will  approve."  He  paused, 

164 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

his  manner  grew  animated —  "Though  Madame  Nitolsk 
is  a  very  attractive  woman,  in  and  of  herself,  I  should 
find  it  impossible  to  place  her  as  my  mother  is  now 
placed.  No,  though  taken  alone  she  is  pleasing  and  ca- 
pable of  arousing  some  sort  of  warmth,  I  could  never 
think  of  her  as  a  possible  wife." 

He  arose,  laid  the  unfinished  cigar  upon  the  smoking- 
tray,  then  started  to  walk  around  the  room,  as  was  his 
habit  when  having  some  matter  of  weight  under  consid- 
eration. 

"No,  I  will  not  think  of  her;  I  will  not  visit  her 
again." 

He  was  resolved  as  to  this.  Well  for  Lieutenant 
Trent  that  Madame  Nitolsk  was  not  near,  for  were  she 
he  would  not  so  calmly  buckle  on  his  armor  and  fly  from 
the  enemy's  country ;  but  she  was  not  in  close  touch,  and 
her  influence  seldom  went  beyond  her  presence.  With 
Julia  Pembroke  all  was  different.  He  felt  certain  that 
he  could  love  her  devotedly;  but  he  knew  that  Hampton 
Alverstone  was  not  a  little  enamored  of  her  charms,  for 
this  he  had  seen  on  the  evening  at  the  Opera.  But,  then, 
Alverstone  was  a  plain  American,  and  Julia  might  be 
like  many  of  her  countrywomen — anxious  to  possess  a 
title.  In  this  he  could  surpass  Alverstone,  for  he,  Regi- 
nald Trent,  could  introduce  her  to  the  best  of  European 
aristocracy,  and  he  could  ask  her  to  become  the  wife  of 
Sir  Reginald  Trent,  heir  to  the  earldom  of  Essexby, 
descendant  of  one  of  the  noblest  families  of  England, 
nephew  of  Prince  and  Princesse  de  Loire,  one  of  the 
medieval  houses  of  France,  and  brother  of  the  Duchess 
of  Strasburg,  whose  social  position  in  Germany  was 
consequently  very  high.  He  could  introduce  her  to  all 
the  polite  society  of  England  and  on  the  Continent  as 
well.  And  his  mother's  consent  was  almost  assured,  for 

165 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

a  strong  mutual  friendship  existed  between  his  mother 
and  Miss  Pembroke. 

When  to  his  worth  should  be  added  what  Julia  Pem- 
broke was  able  to  give — the  innate  charm,  the  inherent 
worth — and  the  unexcelled  accomplishments  of  herself, 
he  felt  he  could  present  her  as  his  wife  in  any  court  in 
the  world.  And  to  her  personal  charm  she  could  add 
great  wealth,  which  fact  enhanced  the  situation  much. 
Though  the  Trents  had  always  possessed  enough  for  the 
discharge  of  every  duty  devolving  upon  them,  the  great 
wealth  to  which  Nevere  said  Julia  was  now  heir  was 
surely  no  objection. 

He  speculated  not  upon  the  mill  wherein  the  fortune 
of  Julia  might  have  been  gristed.  He  lit  another  Havana 
and  sat  down  again.  He  would  not  tell  Alverstone  of 
this  news  of  Julia  Pembroke's  fortune.  For,  though 
Alverstone  had  great  wealth  himself,  there  was  no  telling 
how  much  more  he  would  be  glad  to  have.  No,  he 
would  look  into  this  matter,  and  perhaps  before  he  should 
return  to  India  he  might  be  able  to  tell  his  mother  that 
at  last  he  had  chosen  his  wife. 

He  sat  and  smoked  for  some  little  time,  when  his  eye 
chanced  to  fall  upon  a  letter  on  a  tiny  tray  upon  the  oak 
stand  near  by.  He  looked  more  closely  and  saw  it  was 
a  letter  from  some  one  in  mourning.  He  arose,  picked  it 
up  and  read  that  it  was  for  himself.  On  opening,  he 
read  an  invitation  from  Madame  Nitolsk  for  a  reveillon. 

"Mr.  Alverstone  to  see  Lieutenant  Trent,"  announced 
the  butler. 

"Show  him  in  here,  John,"  said  Trent,  in  reply  to  their 
old  English  butler,  whom  they  always  took  with  them 
on  journeys  to  Paris. 

As  Alverstone  entered,  Trent  went  toward  him  and 
put  out  his  hand,  saying:  "Glad  to  see  you,  Alverstone. 

166 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

I  have  been  sitting  here  alone,  smoking,  dozing  and  at 
the  same  time  under  the  spell  of  a  reflective  mood." 

Alverstone  laughed  quietly,  and  then  said:  "Perhaps 
it  were  better  that  I  should  not  intrude  upon  such  an 
hour." 

"On  the  contrary,  Alverstone,  I  am  glad  you  came. 
Here  is  a  fine  chair ;  it  is  the  especial  delight  of  my  uncle 
when  he  smokes  and  looks  at  the  fire,"  said  Trent,  laugh- 
ing. "Now,  you  be  the  Prince.  Do  you  ever  smoke 
Havanas?  These  are  fine  ones." 

"No,"  said  Alverstone;  "I  prefer  cigarettes." 

"In  that  case  they  are  here,  too,"  and  Trent  opened 
his  pocket-case,  and  soon  they  were  smoking,  as  if  that 
were  the  business  of  life. 

"I  just  had  an  invitation  from  Madame  Nitolsk," 
remarked  Trent,  handing  Alverstone  the  invitation.  "Of 
course,  you  got  one?" 

"Yes,  I  did;  but  I  can  not  accept,  for  I  shall  be  in 
Belgium  on  that  date." 

"In  the  States,  I  presume,  you  do  not  have  Christmas 
parties  after  this  fashion?" 

"No,"  answered  Alverstone;  "at  least,  not  the  Prot- 
estant portion  of  us.  Let  me  see.  Here  the  guests  attend 
the  Opera  or  the  theater  or  some  church  and  then  go 
to  some  party  at  midnight — is  that  it?" 

"Yes,  that  is  the  fashion  here." 

Between  pretty  rings  and  fleecy  clouds  and  puffs,  all 
made  of  dainty,  ethereal  smoke,  they  put  little  pleas- 
antries and  friendly  converse,  until  Alverstone  suddenly 
remembered  an  engagement  he  had  at  that  hour.  He 
said  as  much  and  got  up  to  go. 

Trent  took  out  his  watch  and  said :  "Yes,  it  is" — 

"What  a  fine  charm!"  interrupted  Alverstone,  laying 
hold  on  a  gold  lyre.  He  looked  up  at  Trent  and  said: 
"Where  did  you  get  this?" 

167 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

Trent  was  dashed  for  an  instant,  and,  not  wishing  to 
tell  that  he  had  it  from  Madame  Nitolsk,  was  at  a  loss 
as  to  what  he  should  make  answer.  He  looked  sternly 
at  Alverstone  for  a  moment,  and  he  thought  he  detected 
an  unpleasant  humor  in  his  friend.  He  was  certain  it 
must  be  that  the  sight  of  the  lyre  had  caused  it.  Per- 
haps Alverstone  had  seen  it  in  Madame  Nitolsk's  pos- 
session. 

"You  have  seen  it  before?"  questioned  Trent. 

"No,  I  think  not,"  replied  Alverstone. 

"I'll  tell  you  of  it  some  future  time,"  said  Trent. 

Alverstone  turned  and  went  toward  the  door. 


168 


CHAPTER  XL 

As  Lady  Trent  approached  the  door  of  Julia's  apart- 
ment, she  heard  her  singing  softly  a  part  from  the  duet 
of  the  fourth  act  of  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  while  accom- 
panying herself  upon  the  piano. 

Julia  answered  the  ring  and  Lady  Trent  was  given  a 
very  cordial  reception. 

"I  have  come  to  fetch  you  to  dinner,"  said  Lady 
Trent,  after  due  exchange  of  conversation.  "We  can  not 
accept  a  refusal." 

"I  should  be  happy  to  do  so,"  said  Julia,  leading 
Lady  Trent  to  a  comfortable  chair,  which  she  drew  before 
the  fire ;  then  she  adjusted  a  screen  that  might  shield 
Lady  Trent  from  the  force  of  the  bed  of  living  coals. 

"Let  me  remove  your  furs,"  said  Julia. 

"No,  I  must  not  remain  long.    You  will  go  with  me?" 

"I  am  sorry,  but  I  can  not,  Lady  Trent.  I  must 
study  this  fourth  act  carefully,  for  the  maestro  knows  to 
a  nicety  if  I  study  much  or  little." 

"Do  enjoy  yourself,  child;  do  not  study  so  hard. 
With  that  great  fortune  you  ought  not  think  of  a  career. 
You  might  pardon  me,  Julia,  for  I  love  you  dearly,  if  I 
have  known  you  but  five  days,  and  I  would  advise  you  as 
would  a  devoted  mother." 

Seeing  Julia  about  to  speak,  she  put  up  her  hand  in 
token  of  silence  on  Julia's  part,  while  she  went  on: 
"When  I  was  your  age  I  hoped  for  a  career." 

Lady  Trent  ceased  speaking  and  looked  at  Julia,  who 
stared  in  unconcealable  amazement. 

"Yes,"  she  went  on,  in  a  bright  manner,  which  gave 
no  evidence  of  regrets  for  the  abandonment  of  her  youth- 

169 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

ful  hopes:  "I  hoped  to  be  a  voice  teacher;  I  wished  to 
be  just  such  a  one  as  is  the  celebrated  Madame  Mathilde 
Marchesi.  You  know  her?"  she  interrogated. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  attended  some  of  her  auditions," 
replied  Julia. 

"She  was  my  inspiration.  I  felt  that  were  I  to  do  for 
London  what  she  has  done  for  Paris,  I  should  be  the 
happiest  woman  on  earth;  with  this  difference,  however, 
I  wished  to  remain  single,  for  it  occurred  to  my  mind 
that  a  family  and  its  cares  might  interfere  with  the  suc- 
cess of  my  school  of  song." 

"I  knew  you  were  a  great  patron  of  our  art,"  replied 
Julia ;  "but,  truly,  I  had  no  idea  you  qared  for  it  so  much 
as  that." 

"No,  few  could  think  of  me  as  interested  in  anything 
like  a  career,  I  know.  But  had  I  followed  my  girlhood 
notions  I  should  not  be  the  mother  of  a  soldier  boy,  nor 
of  a  splendid  girl,  both  of  whom  are  all  I  could  desire; 
and,  too,  there  is  such  an  indescribable,  such  a  supreme, 
happiness  in  being  the  loved  wife  of  some  good  man. 
The  better  he  is  the  better  the  condition.  Of  course, 
there  are  many  marriages  which  prove  sad  trials  to  both 
husband  and  wife,  and  some  that  are  utter  failures ;  but 
that  should  constitute  no  reason  for  one  preferring  cel- 
ibacy to  married  life,  not  a  whit  more  than  that  persons 
should  decide  not  to  live  at  all,  because  some  persons  are 
afflicted  with  a  mild  disease  and  others  are  sorely 
afflicted,  peradventure  unto  death,  with  an  incurable 
malady." 

Suddenly  rising,  she  said:  "Then  you  think  you  can 
not  go  with  me?" 

"I  thank  you  very  much,  Lady  Trent,  and  I  regret  my 
inability  to  accept ;  but  I  can  not  to-day,"  replied  Julia. 

"You  will  come  some  other  day,  soon,  will  you  not?" 
said  Lady  Trent,  allowing  Julia  to  adjust  her  furs. 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"But,"  said  Julia,  while  fastening  the  furs,  still  hold- 
ing to  the  clasp  and  looking  coaxingly  into  Lady  Trent's 
eyes,  "you  will  tell  me  where  or  of  whom  you  learned 
of  my  news  from  America  ?" 

"Monsieur  Nevere  told  me,"  answered  Lady  Trent. 

"Monsieur  Nevere!"  repeated  Julia,  in  consternation, 
for  this  was  a  stroke,  indeed.  "Monsieur  Nevere !  Why, 
how  could  he  know  it?"  exclaimed  Julia,  as  much  to  her- 
self as  to  her  visitor;  for  she  was  running  through  her 
mind  the  thread  by  which  it  were  possible  that  he  should 
know  it.  A  lawyer,  she  thought,  was  in  duty  bound  to 
keep  secret,  matters  pertaining  to  a  client's  affairs,  at  least 
affairs  which  had  not  become  public. 

"Monsieur  Nevere's  butler  has  a  cousin  in  the  office 
of  your  attorney,"  explained  Lady  Trent,  "and  the  but- 
ler told  Monsieur  Nevere  that  the  office  boy  had  over- 
heard the  attorney  say  that  you  had  a  great  fortune  left 
you." 

"I  must  see  Monsieur  at  once,"  said  Julia,  decidedly, 
"and  I  shall  ask  him  not  to  disclose  this  to  any  one  else." 

"Why?"  asked  Lady  Trent. 

"It  is  a  difficult  matter,"  said  Julia,  warmly,  "for  a 
girl  with  much  money  to  be  able  to  sing.  I  have  found 
here  that  the  persons  who  have  money  find  it  impossible 
to  interest  the  teachers  in  their  voices." 

"Why,  how  strange !  Are  you  sure  this  is  quite  true?" 
said  Lady  Trent,  in  hushed  surprise. 

"I  have  seen  this  to  be  the  case  during  all  my  years 
of  study.  To  be  successful  in  musical  circles  one  must 
have  influence,  and  to  have  those  in  power  interested 
in  one  there  must  be  an  appearance  of  limited  means." 

"Well,  well !  that  is  dealing  in  art  for  art's  sake 
alone." 

"I  presume  not,"  answered  Julia;  "but  I  think,  on 
close  observation  it  will  be  proven  that  I  have  spoken  the 

171 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

truth.  My  teacher  is  very  much  interested  in  me  now, 
but  I  should  not  like  to  take  my  chances  were  he  to  learn 
that  I  might  inherit  much  money." 

Lady  Trent's  fine  eyes  sparkled  with  a  happy  light. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  be  inquisitive,  but  may  I  ask  from 
whom  you  inherit  this  fortune?" 

"It  is  from  the  estate  of  a  bachelor  uncle  in  Cincin- 
nati, who  left  eighty  millions,  together  with  the  income 
from  the  gold  mines  in  California.  These  latter  were  the 
property  of  my  father.  I  had  a  stepmother,  but  she  and 
her  children  died  of  a  fever,  so  that  I  am  sole  heir  to  my 
father's  estate.  No  one  except  father  ever  thought  these 
gold  mines  would  yield  much  profit,  but  three  years  ago, 
my  attorney  in  Chicago  reports,  they  became  quite  valu- 
able." 

"That  is  very  nice,  I  am  sure,"  said  Lady  Trent, 
quietly;  for,  though  much  pleased  with  Julia's  good  for- 
tune, especially  with  her  great  fortune,  she  betrayed  by 
no  outward  sign  that  she  was  unspeakably  happy  with 
this  new  argument  in  favor  of  Miss  Pembroke  when 
next  the  subject  of  Reginald's  marriage  should  be 
broached. 

Lady  Trent  went  out  very  well  satisfied  with  the 
result  of  her  visit.  She  was  not  a  woman  of  the  busy- 
body order;  but  she  was  at  present  especially  interested 
in  the  welfare  of  two  beings  whom  she  loved — the  one 
-with  a  mother's  undying  love,  the  other  with  a  love  more 
than  that  of  friendly  interest.  She  told  herself — for  she 
was  a  clever  woman — that  she  thought  she  would  like  to 
see  her  son  married  to  just  such  a  woman,  but  that, 
naturally,  deep  down  in  her  nature  there  lay  a  preference 
for  an  English  woman  with  Julia  Pembroke's  character. 

When  Alverstone  left  the  mansion  of  Prince  de  Loire, 
Lieutenant  Trent  was  certain  that  he  had  quite  a  formid- 

172 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

able  rival  in  the  person  of  Hampton  Alverstone.  He 
decided  that  he  must  be  up  and  on  duty  if  he  would  accom- 
plish the  desired  end  he  now  had  in  view.  Yes,  he  would 
go  to  Nevere  and  ask  the  artist  to  take  him  along  when 
he  went  to  the  Maestro  Novara's  to  play  for  Miss  Pem- 
broke. 

It  is  strange,  but,  knowing  the  line  along  which  one 
mind  will  work  to  gain  a  certain  result,  the  line  along 
which  all  minds  are  likely  to  work  to  gain  that  same 
point  is  assuredly  known. 

Trent  at  once  had  decided  to  pursue  exactly  the  same 
course  as  that  followed  by  Alverstone  when  he  had 
sought  means  by  which  to  be  in  intimate  relation  with 
Julia  Pembroke.  So  Trent  put  off  in  haste  to  see  Nevere. 

When  Trent  entered  Nevere's  studio  he  was  greeted 
in  a  hearty  manner.  It  was  Nevere's  custom  to  make  all 
who  entered  his  apartments  remember  him — Nevere,  the 
great  portrait  painter — not  for  his  art  alone,  but  as  well 
for  that  blessed  characteristic — brilliant  amiability.  No 
one  could  soon  forget  the  sunny  disposition  with  which 
he  brightened  the  world  of  those  who  came  into  his  home. 

Trent  took  a  seat  beside  him  and  watched  Nevere 
work,  for  he  was  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  a  por- 
trait of  a  Madame  Sternman,  of  New  York. 

After  many  topics  were  discussed  and  artistic  remarks 
passed  there  was  a  lull  in  the  conversation.  Nevere  kept 
steadily  touching  the  portrait,  while  Trent  watched  him. 

After  a  period  of  marked  silence  Trent  spoke.  "Do 
you  think  you  can  take  me  to  hear  you  and  Miss  Pem- 
broke when  you  play  for  her  at  the  maestro's?  You  see, 
I  should  love  to  hear  her  sing,  and  the  old  fellow  will 
not  allow  her  to  sing  for  any  one  at  all.  If  I  hear  her — 
and  I  am  anxious  to  hear  her  voice — I  must  hear  her  at 
the  master's  during  lesson  hour." 

173 


AN  AMERICAN  SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"No,"  said  Nevere,  curtly;  "I  tried  that  once,  and  I 
assure  you  I'll  not  try  it  again,  for  it  was  very  illy 
received  by  Novara.  I  dare  not  attempt  it  again." 

"Some  Miss  to  see  Monsieur  Nevere,"  said  the  butler, 
who  had  entered  and  stood  a  little  inside  the  door. 

"Miss  who,  Paul?" 

"I  do  not  know,  Monsieur,"  weakly  replied  the  cha- 
grined domestic. 

"Show  the  Mademoiselle  into  the  salon  and  I'll  be 
there  instantly." 

Paul  departed,  and  Nevere,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word,  entered  his  boudoir,  and,  laying  off  his  working 
jacket,  donned  his  coat.  As  he  came  out  of  the  boudoir 
he  said:  "Here,  Trent,  paint  until  I  return.  I  shall  not 
be  away  long."  He  laughed  lightly  at  his  joke,  but 
Trent,  as  if  taking  a  command  from  a  superior  officer, 
took  up  several  brushes  and  tubes  of  paint.  Then  adjust- 
ing the  palette  over  his  thumb,  wijth  the  agility  of  a 
trained  soldier  in  the  heydey  of  manly  strength  he 
mounted  the  scaffolding  in  front  of  a  large  painting 
standing  to  one  side  of  the  room,  and  upon  which  Nevere 
had  as  yet  put  only  a  few  hours'  work.  He  began  to 
paint  vigorously,  imitating  every  motion  of  an  earnest 
artist. 

Nevere  paused  to  laugh,  which  he  did  heartily,  and 
then  passed  out  in  a  happy  humor  to  meet  the  Miss 
"Somebody" — the  miss  with  the  name  which  had  proved 
the  Waterloo  of  the  French  butler's  strife  with  the  Eng- 
lish language. 

As  soon  as  the  portieres  had  fallen  together  behind 
Nevere,  Trent's  mind  took  on  exclusively  the  thoughts 
which  stirred  every  portion  of  the  gray  matter  of  his 
brain.  Now  that  Nevere  refused  to  take  him  to  hear 
Julia,  and  as  he  could  not  trust  to  the  chance  meetings 
in  society,  he  must  meet  her  at  her  daily  work.  This 

174 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

was  the  only  course  to  pursue.  He  would  ask  Nevere 
who  her  language  teacher  was,  and  her  other  teachers. 
In  that  way  he  might  have  a  chance  meeting.  "Pshaw !" 
he  inwardly  ejaculated;  "I  could  storm  and  take  a  fort 
easily  and  quickly,  but  to  storm  a  woman's  heart — what 
a  task,  when  the  woman  is  of  this  type — the  type  my 
mother  adores!" 

He  descended  quickly  from  his  seat  at  the  top  of  the 
steps  and  walked  toward  a  chair.  When  about  to  sit 
down  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  portrait  of  the  little  child, 
Adino,  which  portrait  his  mother  had  admired  at  her  sit- 
ting. He  stepped  across  and  stood  before  it.  While  look- 
ing at  Adino's  portrait  his  eyes  raised  to  the  Oriental 
hanging  behind,  which  hanging  covered  a  life-sized  por- 
trait. With  his  right  hand  he  lifted  the  drapery  and  saw 
the  portrait  of  Madame  Nitolsk.  Her  eyes  were  fastened 
upon  him  and  burned  into  his  very  soul.  He  laid  the 
drapery  upon  the  frame,  then  stepped  back  to  view  the 
mother  and  child.  He  gazed  long  at  the  woman.  "Yes, 
she  has  a  strangely  fascinating  beauty,  but  I  dare  not 
love  her.  Mother,  your  verdict  rings  clear.  She  would 
not  make  a  good  wife  for  Reginald  Trent." 

"He  turned  abruptly.  What  was  that?  He  could  not 
help  hearing.  Who  was  speaking,  and  why  was  she  here? 
It  was  the  voice  of  Miss  Pembroke.  It  came  from  the 
direction  of  the  salon.  It  was  very  distinct.  She  must 
be  near  the  door,  where  she  had  paused,  no  doubt,  in  the 
act  of  leave-taking. 

"I  will  go  along  the  hall  and  go  out  with  her.  Fine 
luck!  fine,  indeed.  Now,  Reginald  Trent,  be  a  soldier; 
be  on  duty!" 

"Ah,  Miss  Pembroke,  /what  an  unexpected  pleasure  I" 
said  Trent,  as,  hat  in  hand,  he  made  Julia  a  salute. 

Julia,  smiling,  responded  in  a  ringing,  cheery  voice: 
"It  is  an  unexpected  pleasure  to  me,  I  assure  you." 

175 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"But  I  thought  mother  was  with  you." 

"She  was  until  a  short  time  ago,"  replied  Julia. 

"But  you  were  to  return  with  her  and  take  dinner 
with  us." 

"I  regret  much,  but  I  could  not.  It  would  be  delight- 
ful, I  know.  I  had  a  lesson  this  hour,  and  I  am  on 
my  way  home." 

"Do  not  study  so  hard.  Miss  Pembroke;  you  will 
spoil  those  beautiful  eyes  and  wear  out  your  nerves." 

"I  think  not,"  said  Julia ;  "when  one  loves  one's  work 
the  pursuit  of  that  work  seldom  injures  the  health." 
Then  turning  to  Nevere,  she  asked:  "This  meets  your 
approval,  does  it  not,  Monsieur  Nevere?" 

"You  are  quite  right,  Miss  Pembroke,"  quickly  replied 
Nevere;  but  the  tone  was  more  serious  than  the  ques-i 
tion  had  made  necessary.  It  changed  at  once  as  he  went 
on :  "Lieutenant  Trent,  you  must  not  discourage  my  song 
bird.  I  am  anxious  to  play  for  Mademoiselle  Pembroke 
when  she  sings  at  the  Opera,  which  is  soon." 

"You  shall  play  for  me,  Monsieur  Nevere,"  rejoined 
Julia,  "and  I  shall  sing,  real  soon,  I  think.  I  feel  the 
master  will  let  me  sing  before  long,  although  he  has  set 
my  debut  a  year  from  now — next  December." 

"And  are  you  thinking  of  another  year's  study,  after 
staying  with  that  exacting  old  man  these  six  long  years  ?" 
asked  Trent. 

"Sh — "  said  Julia,  frowning  and  putting  up  her  hand 
in  signal  of  silence. 

Trent  found  himself  thinking  seriously  of  her  beauty, 
of  her  wealth  and  of  her  accomplishments. 

"Good-bye,  Monsieur  Nevere ;  good  evening,  Lieuten- 
ant Trent,"  and  Julia  went  out  at  the  door,  which  the 
butler  was  holding  open,  and  which  she  heard  close  as 
she  went  down  the  steps  to  the  first  floor. 

176 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

On  her  way  home  from  a  lesson  in  stage  deportment 
Julia  had  gone  to  Monsieur  Nevere's  and  had  asked  him 
not  to  mention  to  any  one  of  her  fortune.  And  she  had 
told  him  that  though  the  Trents  did  know,  they  would 
keep  the  secret,  for  she  had  asked  Lady  Trent  to  do  so. 

As  she  stepped  out  upon  the  sidewalk  and  started 
off  at  a  brisk  pace,  Trent,  who  had  come  softly  behind, 
stepped  beside  her  and  begged  permission  to  walk  with 
her. 

Julia  started,  for  she  had  not  noticed  his  egress,  and 
had  supposed  she  was  alone.  An  annoyed  expression, 
unseen  by  Trent,  flit  across  her  face,  but  she  did  not 
allow  it  to  rest  there.  She  was  very  fond  of  Trent's 
parents,  both  for  themselves  and  because  they  were  very 
dear  friends  of  Madame  Cinati,  and  she  would  not  be 
guilty  of  ungraciousness  toward  their  son. 

Julia  and  Trent  walked  on,  Trent  talking  lively  all 
the  while.  He  was  in  a  happy  frame  of  mind.  On  turn- 
ing round  the  church  of  St.  Augustine,  Julia  saw  the 
music  store  of  Grus.  When  they  had  reached  the  store, 
she  stopped,  and  so  did  Lieutenant  Trent. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  began,  "but  I  am  going  in 
here  to  look  for  several  pieces  of  music." 

"I  may  go?"  questioned  Trent. 

"No,"  objected  Julia;  "I  shall  be  there  some  time, 
and  I  shall  be  engaged  at  a  work  which  is  very  tedious." 

"You  are  too  serious,"  he  said  by  way  of  answer. 

He  wondered  if  this  was  a  hoax.  At  any  rate,  his 
mood  was  all  changed  from  exhilaration  to  that  of  dog- 
gedness. 

"Good  evening,  Miss  Pembroke."  He  saluted  and 
crossed  the  square,  in  the  direction  of  the  Rue  la  Boetie, 
while  Julia  entered  the  Grus  Magasin  de  Mttsique. 

Just  across  the  street  was  the  tall,  slender  figure  of 
a  very  carefully  groomed  man,  moving  slowly.  One  who 

177 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

might  notice  him  would  have  judged  him  to  be  a  person 
without  an  objective  point  in  view,  for  he  was  moving 
so  slowly  that  something  of  great  interest  to  him  must 
be  found  somewhere  in  this  neighborhood.  Had  the 
observer  been  keener,  he  had  seen  that  the  pair  who  had 
parted  at  the  entrance  to  the  music  store  had  kindled  a 
fire  in  his  eye  which  gave  evidence  of  intense  emotion 
within.  By  a  bit  of  insistence  on  the  part  of  the  onlooker 
it  were  further  seen  that  an  artist,  wishing  to  portray 
jealousy,  would  offer  great  inducements  to  this  young 
man,  whose  entire  being  now  took  on  the  air  of  a  man 
out  from  whose  life  had  gone  the  last  ray  of  hope.  It 
was  not  jealousy  alone  that  drew,  twisted  and  distorted 
horribly  every  fibre  of  every  muscle  and  every  nerve  of 
the  lone  stranger.  It  was  a  combination  of  two  emo- 
tions, either  of  which  destroys  entirely  the  being  into 
whose  soul  it  enters. 

The  sculptor  Vela,  who,  in  order  to  get  those  strong 
lines  of  Napoleon's  blasted  hopes,  caused  his  betrothed 
to  aid  him,  by  telling  her  at  a  moment  of  blissful  trust 
that  she  trusted  in  a  faithless  lover,  might  have  spared 
that  beautiful  fiancee  had  he  found  Hampton  Alverstone, 
as  he  stood  gazing  out  the  broad  street  after  the  vanish- 
ing Lieutenant  Trent. 

Alverstone  gazed  long  after  Trent — Trent,  the  debon- 
air soldier — Trent,  the  gallant  lover — Trent,  the  man  of 
rank — Trent,  the  idol  of  all  women.  This  was  the  man 
whom  fate  had  given  him  for  a  rival,  and  a  rival  upon 
whom  success  was  an  attendant.  To  Alverstone  it  were 
maddening  to  contemplate  the  probability  of  Julia  Pem- 
broke's marriage  with  another. 

Why  should  not  this  Englishman  seek  his  wife  among 
his  own  class?  At  any  rate,  among  those  of  his  own 
nationality  ?  And  why  should  it  be  that  he  himself  should 
have  met  so  many  hundreds  of  American  girls,  whose 

178 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

fond  mammas  had  evinced  their  willingness  as  plainly 
as  had  "Barkis"?  Yes,  he  had  met  these  beautiful  crea- 
tures, so  happy  in  giving  him  pleasure,  and  yet  not  until 
he  had  met  this  hard  student  of  song — this  ardent  chaser 
of  a  career — had  he  been  touched  by  the  charms  of  fem- 
ininity— felt  himself  imprisoned — totally  incapable  of  ex- 
tricating himself. 

A  little  French  child,  hopping  on  one  foot,  looked  up 
at  him  for  time  enough  to  see  that  he  was  not  happy.  A 
woman  with  a  chair  inverted  upon  her  head,  moved  by 
that  peculiarly  sympathetic  feeling  which  the  French  are 
quick  to  express  for  one  they  suspect  of  being  in  distress, 
stopped  the  shrill  cry  of  her  trade — for  she  was  a  chair 
mender,  and  loudly  called  her  trade  in  the  streets — and, 
turning  her  eyes  upon  Alverstone,  gave  him  compassion- 
ate notice.  She  knew  not  for  what,  but  he  was  a  man 
in  distress,  and  she  gave  him  that  much  assistance. 

Perhaps — who  knows? — that  these  little  unknown 
sympathies  do  not  very  materially  aid  one's  progress 
through  many  a  slough  of  despond.  We  pray  for  the 
blessing  of  God  upon  our  lives,  and  who  knows  that  this 
blessing  does  not  consist  in  one's  being  continually  en- 
vironed by  influences  such  as  these  which  now  sur- 
rounded Alverstone? 

The  child,  pausing  in  its  play;  the  working- woman, 
leaving  for  a  time  that  which  to  her  was  her  livelihood, 
both  drawn  toward  him  by  the  unhappiness  depicted  in 
face  and  mien,  could  not  but  set  at  liberty  some  strange 
influence  which,  though  in  a  mysterious  manner,  just  the 
same  did  operate  for  the  easement  of  Alverstone's  fierce 
feeling. 

He  wondered  why  it  was  that  the  terrible  load  which 
had  almost  threatened  self-destruction  had  suddenly  lifted 
and  as  suddenly  slipped  away. 


179 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

When  Julia  left  the  music  store  the  air  had  cleared, 
as  is  its  manner  in  that  Parisian  climate,  for  it  does 
clear  as  by  magic,  and  she  thought  she  would  walk  home. 
She  was  not  thinking  of  Trent,  nor  of  Alverstone,  but  of 
a  beautiful  child  she  had  seen  in  the  store.  He  had  looked 
at  her  with  a  pair  of  large,  black  eyes,  the  like  of  which 
she  had  never  seen,  and  which  she  was  sure  she  could 
never  quite  forget.  How  could  she,  when  they  seemed  two 
wells  of  a  luminous  depth,  and  they  were  unfathomable? 
She  had  never  looked  into  eyes  of  a  beauty  so  rare — 
eyes  which  seemed  living  organisms,  fully  capable  of 
carrying  on  an  individual  existence,  without  dependence 
upon  vital  organs.  His  hair  was  a  mass  of  long  blue 
black  curls,  reaching  almost  to  his  waist.  His  skin,  a 
rich  olive,  with  no  tinge  of  red.  The  mouth,  though 
small,  yet  carried  in  its  rose-leaf-shaped  lips  that  alluring 
charm  which  such  treasures  always  hide. 

Julia  had  looked  long  at  the  child,  for  she  had  been 
seated  at  a  table  on  which  the  clerk  had  been  arranging 
new  musical  compositions  for  her  to  examine,  as  was 
the  custom  in  the  music  stores  she  frequented,  and  where 
she  was  known  as  a  very  promising  lyric  singer  of  the 
school  of  Maestro  Novara. 

There  had  been  quite  a  little  flirtation,  for  the  child 
had  been  much  pleased  with  the  large,  sympathetic  blue 
eyes,  set  in  the  white  face,  enlivened  with  the  pretty  glow 
of  healthy  pink  upon  the  cheeks,  surrounded  by  a  halo 
of  gold  in  the  arrangement  of  the  beautiful  hair  seen  in 
soft  silken  rolls. 

"I  wish  I  had  spoken  to  him.  He  certainly  was  far 
beyond  the  order  or  orders  of  children  I  have  known. 
There  was  something  about  him  that  reminded  me  of 
some  one  I  have  met." 

Then  her  healthy,  elastic  mind  traveled  on,  from  the 
little  boy  to  that  other  stage  of  a  boy's  existence — that 

1 80 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

stage  in  which  if  a  woman  fails  to  recognize  the  boy  in 
the  man,  at  least  to  recognize  the  boy  before  her,  she 
is  guilty  of  an  unpardonable  misdemeanor. 

Why  was  it  that  to  her  Trent  seemed  no  stranger? 
She  had  never  felt  the  least  strangeness  when  near  him. 
It  never  occurred  to  her  to  entertain  for  him  any  feeling 
unlike  that  one  should  have  for  another  related  by  ties 
of  blood.  Her  thoughts  took  on  the  color  of  pretty  atten- 
tions shown  her  by  other  young  men  with  whom  she  had 
come  in  contact,  either  through  the  medium  of  study  or 
when  with  Madame  Cinati;  but  no  one  of  them  had 
ever  had  power  to  tempt  her  away  from  the  goal  she  had 
set  as  the  mark  at  which  to  aim. 

Then  that  subtle  fluid  which  governs  each  little  world 
of  each  person,  as  well  as  the  great  world  in  which  all 
move — thought — sped  on,  on  to  that  other  person  who 
had  so  lately  entered  within  the  circle  of  her  busy  life — 
a  life  which  she  had  mapped  out,  and  which  she  intended 
following,  without  the  slightest  change,  to  the  end ;  yet, 
as  all  who  observe  know,  there  are  few  lives,  indeed, 
which  show  no  change,  no  shifting,  from  the  original 
scheme. 

Ah!"  thought  Julia;  there  was  the  exception;  she 
knew  it.  It  was  he — this  young  American.  This,  to  her 
notion,  perfection  in  man.  She  must  not  think  of  him 
or  art  would  vanish ;  for  love,  like  sickness,  eats  up  ambi- 
tion. 

Julia  had  had  suitors,  for  lyric  singers  like  herself 
always  do.  But  it  was  not  for  this  rare  voice  alone  that 
she  had  been  thus  importuned,  though  who  would  not 
seek  a  nightingale  which  sang  at  the  gates  of  Paradise  ? 

One  of  those  whom  she  had  refused  was  the  Prince 
di  Pastanni.  He  was  the  dark  Roman  prince  whom 
Alverstone  had  found  with  Julia  at  the  Trents'  soiree. 

181 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

His  expressed  devotion  had  been  as  intense  as  was  his 
nature,  which  was  strong.  He  had  proposed  to  her  on 
the  evening  of  a  dinner  party  given  by  Madame  Cinati, 
some  two  years  since.  Afterwards,  though  the  prince 
had  made  Julia  feel  this  silent  adoration  whenever  they 
chanced  to  meet,  this  regard  was  never  annoying,  and 
they  had  continued  to  be  acquaintances. 

Then,  too,  there  had  been  a  certain  Russian  noble- 
man, with  a  fine,  deep  basso  voice.  He  had  studied  with 
the  Maestro  Novara  when  Julia  had  first  entered  the 
school.  He  had  boldly  declared  his  love  for  her,  but  she 
had  been  deaf  to  all  his  entreaties.  His  type  had  not 
appealed  to  her  in  the  least.  The  beautiful  pathos  of  his 
voice  had  spoken  to  her,  and  she  had  listened.  But  it 
had  passed  as  a  wild  rhapsody  that,  heard  for  the  first 
time,  is  too  vast,  and  glides  through  the  memory  and  is 
lost.  But  this  basso  had  not  always  remained  a  student 
of  voice. 

One  day,  about  three  years  after  her  entrance  into  the 
maestro's  school,  she  had  found  the  old  master  very  sad, 
and  when  he  had  read  part  of  a  letter,  just  received, 
tears  had  come  into  his  eyes  and  had  overflowed  down 
his  cheeks.  The  Russo-Japanese  war  had  broken  out 
and  the  artist-pupil  with  the  deep  basso  voice  was  leaving 
for  the  front.  The  master  had  shaken  his  head  and  had 
said:  "He  is  on  his  way  to  be  killed  or  to  die.  His 
voice !  his  career !  Oh,  art !  how  multiform  are  the  ob- 
stacles that  beset  the  pathway  of  those  who  would  reach 
thy  shrine !" 

And  now  at  this  moment,  as  Julia  walked  quickly 
up  the  Avenue  de  Friedland,  she  was  not  thinking  of 
these  suitors  of  the  past,  but  of  one  who  now  disturbed 
her  every  thought.  It  was  a  sweet  annoyance,  though 
she  tried  to  tell  herself  otherwise.  This  was  the  one 
person  for  whom  she  felt  as  she  had  never  before  felt 

182 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

for  any  man — that  mysterious  intoxication  of  the  heart 
which  makes  the  soul  quiver. 

From  the  first  time  she  had  looked  across  the  table 
in  the  Hotel  Cecil,  London,  and  had  seen  the  stranger 
facing  her,  she  had  loved  him.  She  had  fought  this  emo- 
tion vigorously — fought  it  as  for  her  very  life;  yet  her 
thoughts  would  travel  in  that  direction,  and  she  had  no 
power  to  control  them — she  felt  swallowed  up — she  felt 
hopelessly  lost — lost  beyond  reclaim  to  her  art,  for  she 
told  herself  that  a  man  like  Hampton  Alverstone,  who 
had  only  a  passing  interest  in  song,  would  never  permit 
his  wife  to  go  on  with  the  work,  without  which  she  felt 
she — Julia  Pembroke — could  not  exist. 

No,  she  would  cast  out  all  thoughts  of  this  man ;  but 
she  would  acknowledge  to  herself,  and  to  herself  solely, 
that  no  woman  ever  loved  a  man  with  a  more  genuine 
love  than  this  which  she  entertained  for  him. 

No,  she  would  think  no  more  of  him.  She  was  a 
strong  character,  and  always  did  as  she  thought  best. 

Here  she  came  out  on  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  was 
reminded  of  the  first  time  she  had  seen  it.  It  had  been 
on  a  beautiful  afternoon.  The  sun  had  been  warming 
and  gladdening  the  thousands  of  men  and  women  enjoy- 
ing a  promenade,  and  the  hundreds  of  little  folks,  trot- 
ting bravely  by  the  side  of  the  hurrying  nurses  and  the 
other  little  ones  playing  at  ball,  hoop  or  some  other  of 
the  numerous  little  games  in  which  the  child  nature 
delights  to  move.  To  Julia  it  had  been  a  memorable 
event — that  first  sight  of  this  great  avenue.  This  great 
gulf  stream,  which  has  an  unnatural  voice.  For  it  is  its 
throng  that  is  the  great  vocal  cord  of  this  artificial 
organ ;  its  movement,  its  vast  lungs ;  but  the  propeller — 
the  mind  of  this  immense  voice — is  not  unnatural;  it  is 
human;  it  is  the  volitions  of  a  city  of  peoples,  and  that 

183 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

is  why  the  voice  is  unnatural;  it  is  man's  work.  God 
alone  creates  the  natural. 

And  yet,  what  a  sameness  there  is  in  this  great  gay 
capital.  To-day  she  saw  on  her  walk  home,  and  especially 
upon  the  Champs  Elysees  Avenue,  just  what  she  had  seen 
upon  that  first  day  in  Paris,  and  just  what  she  had  seen 
every  day  for  the  past  two  thousand  days  which  she 
had  spent  in  the  vast  metropolis. 

Yet  on  this  particular  day  it  occurred  to  her  keen 
intellect,  that  to-day  she  might  register  as  another  day, 
which,  when  viewed  from  some  distant  point  in  life's 
picture,  would  equal,  if  not  surpass,  that  memorable  day 
when  she  had  first  seen  the  Champs  Elysees  Avenue. 
To-day  marked  a  great  struggle,  for  when  a  strong 
woman  loves  and  then  decides  that  for  art's  sake  she 
can  not  marry,  that  is  a  turning  point,  not  only  in  that 
woman's  career,  but  in  that  woman's  influence  for  eter- 
nity- ,  -  ,-:J 

As  Julia  entered  the  hall  of  her  apartment  house,  on 
La  Perouse,  and  passed  into  the  inner  hall}  the  concierge 
came  out  and  handed  her  a  letter. 

This  concierge  was  an  unusually  pretty  French  wom- 
an, and  very  gracious  on  all  occasions.  Her  lodge  was 
at  the  end  of  the  inner  hall,  from  which  she  had  but  to 
look  through  the  glass  doors  and  see  all  who  entered  the 
building. 

One  door  of  the  concierge's  lodge  was  always  closed, 
and  behind  it  was  placed  a  stand,  upon  which  at  most 
hours  o£  the  day  could  be  found  a  very  beautiful  Angora 
cat — Yalu  by  name.  He  had  been  given  that  name  be- 
cause he  had  come  to  live  with  the  concierge  at  the  time 
of  that  victory  in  the  Russo-Japanese  war,  during  the 
year  1904.  Yalu  was  a  very  intelligent  cat,  and  was  on 
duty  during  most  of  the  day.  No  one  came  in  at  the 

184 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

great  front  doors  or  descended  the  great  staircase  but 
Yalu,  whether  awake  or  napping,  arose  and  quickly  re- 
ported on  his  self-imposed  duty,  and,  sitting  up,  stealth- 
ily put  back  the  curtain  with  his  paw.  Then  he  would 
look  out  to  see  what  was  going  on,  and  if  anything 
unusual  was  occurring,  he  manifested  uneasiness ;  other- 
wise, he  blinked  and  smiled  and  continued  to  rock  and 
nod  on. 

When  Julia  was  in  her  own  room  she  went  directly 
to  the  window,  for  the  daylight  was  fast  waning.  She 
opened  the  letter  and  read.  It  was  an  invitation  from 
Madame  Nitolsk  to  be  present  at  a  reveillon  Saturday 
night  at  her  residence,  on  Rue  Caumartin.  Should  she 
accept  this  invitation?  She  liked  this  young  widow. 
When  they  had  first  met  in  the  conservatory  at  the  Trents' 
soiree,  Julia  had  told  herself  there  was  something  of  a 
disturbing  nature — something  hidden — about  this  beau- 
tiful face.  But  after  meeting  her  several  times  during 
the  past  two  days  this  unpleasantness  had  seemed  to  van- 
ish, and  the  sad  tenderness  of  her  languid  eyes  had 
sought  Julia's  sympathy  and  had  gained  it. 

But  now,  if  she  went  to  this  reveillon,  whose  hostess 
was  a  friend  of  so  short  a  time,  she  should  meet  others 
who  would  be  just  as  gracious,  just  as  acceptable,  and  in 
the  course  of  time  she  should  have  to  go  to  their  social 
functions,  as  she  had  to  Madame  Nitolsk's.  No,  she 
would  not  accept  this  invitation.  She  could  not  be  a 
gossamer  creature  and  live  for  that  shimmering  mirage — 
society. 

As  Julia  stood  in  the  gathering  twilight,  looking  out 
through  the  casement  window  upon  the  balcony  beyond, 
there  was  a  far-away  look  in  her  eye  and  a  sadness,  half 
delightful,  seemed  to  breathe  from  her  and  settle  like  a 
mystic  cloak  around  her,  as  it  often  does  when  one  is 
on  the  eve  of  an  eventful  change.  It  was  as  a  premoni- 

185 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

tion,  an  instinctive  foretelling,  that  is  delectable  because 
it  is  unknown. 

A  chill  seemed  to  creep  over  her.  She  turned  quickly 
from  the  window  and  went  into  the  boudoir.  A  strong 
draft  of  air  blew  in  at  the  window.  She  waved  her  hand, 
as  if  judging  the  temperature.  The  room  seemed  cold. 
She  went  to  the  open  window,  but  the  outside  air  was 
soft  and  caressingly  gentle.  Putting  one  foot  on  the  bal- 
cony, she  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  deep  casement,  with 
one  small  white  hand  against  a  side  of  me  open  window. 
From  this  second  balcony  a  fine  view  of  La  Perouse, 
Avenue  d'lena  and  a  part  of  the  circling  Rue  de  Pres- 
bourg  was  presented.  She  looked  around  her  at  the 
buildings,  which  speak  not  only  of  comfort,  but  of  luxury. 
She  saw  fine  carriages  drawn  by  prancing  horses  and 
palatial  automobiles  flying  swiftly  down,  Avenue  d'lena. 
Two  dirty  urchins,  one  a  girl,  the  other  a  boy,  passed  over 
on  the  avenue.  They  were  swarthy  creatures,  with  large 
black  eyes  and  blue  black  ringlets,  that  stuck  out  in  irreg- 
ular bunches  from  under  battered  felt  hats.  Every  now 
and  then  they  stopped  and  counted  the  sous  which  they 
had  gained.  Then  the  girl's  laugh  could  be  heard,  and 
they  passed  on,  out  of  view  of  the  second  balcony.  A, 
priest  passed  up  the  Rue  La  Perouse;  he  wore  the  cus- 
tomary frock,  and  he  was  reading  his  prayer  book.  A 
woman,  driving  a  four-in-hand  tandem,  raced  up  the 
small  street;  she  was  as  smartly  unnatural  as  were  the 
overdocked  tails  of  her  horses.  Her  footman,  who 
perched  behind,  was  taking  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  city. 
Evidently  they  were  returning  from  the  Bois,  for  by  this 
time  it  was  half  after  four,  and  all  the  fashion  of  Paris 
had  left  the  Bois  and  its  avenue. 

This  was  Paris ;  this  was  its  life.  Paris  is  a  being — 
a  people  created  it,  and  it  breathes  and  exists  like  another 
being.  Paris,  like  man,  has  a  soul — its  soul  is  its  people. 

1 86 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

Paris  has  more  than  some  men;  it  has  an  inner  voice — 
for  the  mind  of  its  people  is  its  conscience. 

Julia's  quick,  sensitive  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a 
small  fearful  voice,  which  pleaded  through  violent  sobs: 
Don't  whip  me,  papa;  don't,  don't,  pa — pa, — pa — pa, 
papa — pa — pa" — 

Julia  forgot  all  decorum  and  went  out  on  the  balcony 
and  leaned  over  the  balustrade.  There  was  a  vendor  of 
artichoke  and  green  peas,  who  had  stopped  his  cart  near 
the  curbing,  just  under  her  balcony,  and  was  shaking  a 
small  creature,  which,  shrank  at  each  shake  until  it  looked 
like  a  very  dwarfed  urchin  or  a  very  overgrown  rat. 

"That's  a  nice  way — lose  half  my  earnings — wait  till 
we  get  home — and — and — and  I'll  give  you  more." 

The  irate  voice  of  the  vendor  rose  higher  and  sharper 
at  each  word. 

"Papa — papa — pa — pa" — wailed  the  small  voice.  "I 
did  not  see  it — some  one  must  have" — 

"Yes — you — some  one  must  have  stolen  it — no  one 
steals  from  vendors — you  rascal,"  and,  loosening  his  grip 
of  the  child's  coat,  he  cuffed  first  on  one  side  and  then 
on  the  other,  until  the  little  one  went  backward  unstead- 
ily, and  the  father  started  up  the  street  with  his  cart. 
Still  sobbing  violently,  the  child  began  to  turn  his  pockets 
inside  out.  Nothing  was  to  be  found.  He  turned  and 
looked  down  the  street,  but  no  one  was  coming.  He  was 
early  learning  the  hard  fact  that  money  runs  after  no 
one,  be  it  king  or  beggar,  saint  or  culprit. 

The  child  wrung  his  hands  as  the  angry  voice  of  the 
father  called  after  him  to  hasten  on.  Trembling  pite- 
ously,  and  as  if  remembering  a  duty,  he  crossed  himself 
and  started  up  the  street. 

Just  then  a  two-franc  piece  rang  on  the  pavement. 
The  child  gave  a  start,  for  there  lay  his  two-franc  piece. 

187 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

It  had  been  dislodged  from  his  clothing  in  some  way. 
The  little  one  was  too  interested  in  the  two-franc  piece 
to  notice  that  this  two-franc  piece  was  not  the  lost  one, 
and  that  a  figure  upon  the  second  balcony  above  had 
heard  and  seen  everything,  and  had  thrown  down  the 
bright  new  two-franc  piece. 

In  delight  he  grabbed  at  it  with  two  small  hands,  and 
so  eagerly  that  he  seemed  afraid  it  would  run  away  or 
might  not  be  real.  He  looked  at  it  over  and  over;  it 
looked  like  his  two-franc  piece.  Every  muscle  drew  back 
in  a  stiff  tension  and  his  jaw  opened  wide.  The  lips 
drew  up  and  back  and  showed  the  teeth.  The  knitted 
spot  between  the  eyebrows  smoothed  out,  for  he  was 
smiling. 

"Papa,  papa,"  cried  the  small  voice;  "here  it  is;  I 
found  it.  Wait,  papa ;  here  is  the  two-franc  piece."  And 
he  ran  off  up  La  Perouse. 

Julia  forgot  where  she  was  and  that  it  was  not  dark, 
in  looking  after  the  child  and  the  vendor.  Just  then  a 
horseman  coming  off  the  avenue  on  to  La  Perouse  saw 
the  girlish  figure  leaning  over  the  balcony.  He  knew 
who  she  was,  but  he  would  not  put  his  horse  to  a  run, 
as  had  been  his  intention,  for  he  wished  to  bow  to  her. 

The  patter  of  a  horse's  feet  arrested  her  attention, 
and  Julia  was  conscious  that  some  one  was  coming  up 
the  street.  Instinctively  she  drew  back  into  the  shadow 
of  the  deep  casement. 

The  rider  lifted  his  hat  and  smiled.  But  his  smile 
was  a  searching  one.  Julia  saw  the  upward  movement 
of  the  hand,  and  so  looked  again.  It  was  Hampton 
Alverstone,  and  she  answered  with  a  graceful  inclination 
of  the  head  and  a  pleasing  smile.  Though  an  enchant- 
ing light  shone  in  her  eye,  the  rider  did  not  see  it,  for 
the  twilight  shadows  were  fast  gathering;  but  what  he 

188 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

» 

did  see  was  sufficient,  for  when  she  had  recognized  him 
the  hot  color  had  suffused  itself  over  the  usually  clear 
pink  of  the  cheek,  and  the  searching  expression  of  his 
smile  became  a  look  of  contentment,  for  the  rising  of  deep 
color  and  the  upward  turn  and  parting  of  lips  are  potently 
allusive  signs. 


189 


CHAPTER  XII. 

On  this  particular  morning — Friday,  almost  noon — 
Madame  Nitolsk  sat  in  her  boudoir.  This  boudoir  was 
a  veritable  picture  of  what  one  finds  as  the  boudoir  of 
those  who  would  fain  imitate  Oriental  furnishings.  Beau- 
tiful Oriental  rugs  upon  the  floor,  divans,  cabinets,  tables, 
draperies — all  of  Oriental  design  and  workmanship. 

Rose-colored  silk  curtains  hung  at  the  windows,  Ori- 
ental knickknacks  filled  every  table,  stand,  cabinet  and 
cranny.  Cushions  of  unsurpassed  beauty  of  elegance  and 
of  costliness  were  scattered  everywhere.  And  enlivening 
the  atmosphere  was  a  most  deliciously  exhilarating  scent 
of  some  powerful  perfume — also  Oriental.  In  truth, 
one  might  have  mistaken  the  place  for  the  boudoir  of 
some  princess  of  India,  who  had  taken  into  her  head 
to  add  touches  wholly  European  to  those  known  to  be 
entirely  Oriental. 

But  by  one  who  has  traveled  beyond  the  boundary 
of  his  own  little  farm  or  town,  and  who  has  seen  the 
real  woman  of  India  or  other  Oriental  lands,  Madame 
Nitolsk  would, not  be  mistaken  for  a  woman  of  those 
climes.  But  she  was  a  fitting  gem  in  that  suggestively, 
insinuating  setting.  She  was  dressed  in  a  very  close- 
fitting,  claret-colored  silk  Princess  dress,  with  a  train  of 
unusual  length.  The  dress  was  cut  high  at  the  back  of 
the  neck,  while  the  front  was  carried  low  down  to  a 
point,  showing  the  chest  some  three  or  four  inches 
below  the  line  where  the  neck  and  the  chest  meet.  The 
only  touch  of  the  dressmaker's  skill  that  gave  evidence 
of  the  dress  being  one  for  the  use  of  the  boudoir  alone 
was  the  long,  flowing  sleeve,  which,  to  suit  the  notion 
of  Madame  Nitolsk,  was  tighter  than  should  be  from  the 

190 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

shoulder  to  the  elbow,  thus  showing,  as  did  the  Princess 
gown,  the  exact  form  of  the  part  it  so  closely  fit.  Then 
from  the  elbow  the  sleeve  hung  open  and  was  longer  and 
fuller  than  ever  had  been  any  sleeve  of  that  fashion,  but 
this  was  in  keeping  with  her  character,  for  everything 
must  be  morbidly  exaggerated. 

Around  her  throat  was  a  necklace  of  a  collection  of 
various  gems,  and  it  was  fastened  by  two  large  clasps 
of  dull  gold,  studded  all  over  with  priceless  gems. 
Around  the  left  arm  was  a  bracelet  to  match,  and  clasped 
so  tightly  that  the  band  sank  deep  into  the  pretty,  well- 
rounded  arm.  Beautiful  gems  flashed  from  both  hands, 
while  upon  her  feet  were  to  be  seen  dainty  pointed  slip- 
pers of  a  rich  satin,  embroidered  in  a  design  and  after 
a  fashion  known  only  to  the  art  of  embroidery  in  the 
Orient.  The  hair,  which  was  rolled  up  from  the  face, 
from  the  back,  from  the  sides,  and  caught  by  jeweled 
combs,  confining  every  strand  so  artistically  that  the 
circle  formed  by  the  joining  of  the  separate  gem-stud- 
ded combs,  together  with  the  very  smooth  black  hair, 
formed,  as  it  were,  a  cap  at  the  crown  of  the  head.  The 
dress,  the  jewels,  style  of  coiffure,  the  color  scheme 
throughout,  all  told  the  character  of  the  woman  as  plainly 
as  any  word  picture  could  possibly  have  done. 

She  sat  there,  seemingly  reading  a  novel,  but  in  reality 
she  was  not  reading  a  novel,  but  trying  to  read  one. 
She  closed  the  book  after  several  ineffectual  attempts  to 
center  her  attention  upon  the  doings  of  some  morbid 
character  therein,  which  at  another  time  would  have 
been  most  agreeable.  But  the  morbidity  of  her  own 
nature  served  to  quiet  the  most  exacting  desires  for  such 
characters.  No  fiction  was  strong  as  the  novel  at  this 
time  presenting  itself  in  the  form  of  her  plan  of  action, 
of  which  she  was  one  of  the  principals,  though  not  the 
heroine.  At  last  she  threw  aside  the  book  and  let  her 

"191 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

eyes  rest  upon  a  letter  which  lay  upon  a  small,  onyx 
stand  close  by  her  side.  Her  lip  curled  in  scorn,  and 
had  she  been  a  whit  less  guarded,  she  would  have  let 
slip  a  growl  of  hatred.  As  it  was,  only  the  fierce  tight- 
ening of  the  muscles  told  that  a  deadly  hatred  burned 
within  her  soul,  and  that  the  sight  of  this  letter  was 
sufficient  to  endanger  the  reason  of  one  more  delicately 
organized. 

She  took  up  the  harmless  bit  of  writing  paper  and 
again  read  the  regret.  She  thought,  in  scorn:  "Yes, 
Hampton  Alverstone  has  manufactured  this  excuse.  He 
intends  to  go  to  Belgium  on  that  day,  for  no  reason  but 
that  he  might  be  able  to  send  regrets  instead  of  an  accept- 
ance." 

She  remembered  how  often  within  the  past  few  days, 
when  she  had  met  him,  walking,  riding,  driving — no 
difference  how  or  where — he  had  avoided  her.  Her  heart 
was  sore  at  the  thought  of  it,  but  she  was  not  the  sort 
of  woman  to  submit  calmly  to  defeat.  No,  indeed,  she 
would  make  this  man  love  her,  she  hissed  in  thought; 
at  least  he  should  never  marry  that  Julia.  She  clutched  at 
her  dress  just  over  her  heart  and  thought  on.  And 
thoughts  in  the  brain  of  such  women  as  Madame  Nitolsk 
are  dangerous  and  deadly,  and  often  mean  the  bite  of  the 
serpent  or  the  sting  of  the  adder.  In  truth,  such  women 
study  by  day  and  by  night  how  best  they  may  carry  out 
their  nefarious  schemes,  in  which  they  take  a  special 
interest;  and  the  deeper  the  affair  carries  them  into  the 
morbid  fields  of  action  the  better  they  are  satisfied.  Such 
women  are  at  all  times  dangerous,  and  should  never  be 
permitted  to  enter  sacred  precincts  of  heart  or  home. 

Madame  Nitolsk's  love  for  Hampton  Alverstone  was 
great,  to  be  sure,  but  her  hatred  of  an  unsuspecting  per- 
son— quite  guiltless  of  doing  a  wrong — was  stronger. 
She  stopped  not  for  reason  to  guide  her  as  to  where  she 

192 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

should  strike  for  the  offender.  She  knew  that  Hampton 
Alverstone  loved  the  young  American,  for  on  that  dread- 
ful night — at  the  Trents' — she  had  heard  his  declaration 
of  undying  love,  and,  of  course,  judging  Julia  by  herself, 
she  argued  that  he  would  not  have  done  this  had  not 
Julia  led  him  to  do  so. 

After  all  Madame  Nitolsk's  studies  in  the  ways  and 
means  by  which,  scientifically  or  otherwise,  such  women 
attract  men,  she  had  never  yet  known  the  exquisite  joy — 
the  right  of  womanly  woman — in  having  a  lover  sue  for 
her  hand  in  marriage.  Sad  to  say,  she  had  spent  years 
in  her  efforts  to  impress  herself  upon  masculine  notice. 
But  Madame  Nitolsk  did  not  know  this  type  of  man  to 
which  Hampton  Alverstone  belonged.  He  cared  noth- 
ing for  the  insincere  in  any  walk  of  life.  He  enjoyed 
brightness  of  life  and  action,  but  not  when  divorced  from 
goodness.  For  years  in  India  Madame  Nitolsk  had  tried 
to  enslave  the  attentions  of  Hampton  Alverstone,  but 
could  not.  Since  her  husband's  death  she  had  tried  to 
enslave  the  man  himself,  but  this  was  another  failure. 

Her  home  in  Paris  was  palatial.  She  had  all  that 
wealth  could  buy,  and  her  mirror  told  her  that  she  was 
far  more  than  pretty — it  told  her  that  she  possessed  great 
beauty  of  her  type,  which  type  was  the  one  most  potent 
to  her  notion,  and  it  told  her  that  hidden  far  within  her- 
self lay  the  real  secret  of  success  in  her  especial  line. 

Then  why  should  an  ordinary  girl,  working  for  a 
career,  be  her  successful  rival?  The  thought  was  prepos- 
terous, maddening,  and  was  sure  to  bring  down  upon  her 
rival  the  pent-up  hate  such  women  are  ever  ready  to 
pour  out  upon  those  who  chance  to  block  their  way  or 
in  any  wise  oppose  their  plans. 

In  order  that  a  more  than  acquaintanceship  might 
exist  between  Julia  and  herself  she  had  endured  those 

193 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

lessons  with  the  Maestro  Novara.  She  knew  that  he 
disliked  her  and  that  he  was  likely  to  turn  her  out  of 
his  school  almost  any  day.  However,  she  had  accom- 
plished her  purpose,  for  she  thought  she  had  made  Julia 
an  admirer,  if  not  a  trusting  friend,  and  she  was  sure 
that  Julia  would  come  to  her  reveillon.  True,  this  Ameri- 
can singer  had  not  yet  sent  in  her  acceptance,  but  she 
would  do  so.  Madame  Nitolsk  understood  how  little 
leisure  a  student  could  have  with  such  a  master.  What  a 
persistent  character  Julia  was,  she  thought,  to  study  with 
that  cross  old  man !  She  could  hardly  hold  herself  to  him 
for  a  few  days.  To  think  of  six  years  with  him  caused 
her  imagination  to  stagger.  No,  she  was  not  able  to 
continue  for  long  at  any  task.  Indeed,  she  had  never 
had  a  task  in  her  life,  unless  it  had  been  that  of  living 
with  her  husband  after  the  first  year.  She  had  loved  him 
at  the  time  of  marriage,  but  she  had  tired  of  him  before 
the  first  year  had  gone  by.  In  this  she  was  like  her 
class.  No,  indeed,  not  for  long  would  she  accept  this 
Novara's  arrangement  that  she  must  come  at  nine  of  the 
morning.  To  think  of  it  was  appalling.  Why,  she  had 
to  rise  early,  and  she  could  not  do  that  without  spending 
an  hour  in  a  nap  some  time  during  the  afternoon;  else 
she  must  blink  and  blink  all  evening  like  an  old  owl. 
But — patience — patience — "who  goes  slowly  goes  surely" 
— the  demon  sang  the  old  Italian  proverb  in  at  her  ear. 
She  listened  and  obeyed,  as  she  had  done  many  times 
before. 

A  stillness,  only  felt,  always  indescribable,  seemed  to 
pervade  the  room,  while  she  herself  might  be  dead  and 
in  the  tomb  so  far  as  any  sign  of  life  was  visible.  She 
sat  quite  still,  with  her  feet  upon  the  cushion,  her  elbows 
resting  upon  the  arms  of  the  chair  and  her  chin  between 
her  thumbs  and  forefingers,  while  her  head  strained  for- 
ward as  a  panther  when  scenting  its  prey.  The  set  eyes 

194 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

looked  not  on  anything  without,  but  seemed  to  be  gloat- 
ing over  a  scene  pictured  within  her  brain. 

"Oh,  Madame!  Madame!  Madame!"  shrieked  the 
nurse  of  Adino,  as  she  ran  into  the  room,  wringing  her 
hands.  She  was  frantic  with  terror,  and  suddenly 
stopped,  stood  stark  still  and  seemed  to  be  unable  to  utter 
another  word. 

Madame  Nitolsk  ran  quickly  to  her,  and,  taking  hold 
of  her  arm,  shook  her  repeatedly,  crying :  "Suzanne,  what 
has  happened?  What  is  it?  Speak!  speak!"  But  the 
terrorized  nurse  remained  as  if  stone  dead.  She  seemed 
to  be  paralyzed.  Madame  Nitolsk  wondered  if  the  woman 
were  mad. 

"Suzanne,"  she  commanded  in  a  voice  hoarse  with 
fear,  "Suzanne,  speak!" 

"Oh!  Madame!  Madame!  oh!  oh!  oh!"— and  the 
nurse  was  silent  again  and  seemed  to  be  speechless  for- 
ever. 

She  shook  all  over,  shook  like  a  leaf,  and  her  eyes 
started  from  their  sockets. 

"Suzanne,"  cried  Madame  Nitolsk,  "what  is  it?" 

"Adino  is  dead !"  screamed  the  half-paralyzed  woman, 
and  with  this  great  effort  she  grew  purple  in  the  face 
and  fell  backward  upon  a  pile  of  cushions. 

"Dead!  Oh,  my  God!  dead!"  shrieked  Madame 
Nitolsk,  and  her  hands  clutching  distractedly  at  either 
side  of  her  head,  still  shrieking  "Dead !  dead !"  she 
rushed  out  of  her  boudoir  up  to  the  bedroom  of  her  little 
son. 

His  nurse  was  a  woman  some  forty  years  old,  who 
had  been  with  Adino  since  his  birth,  and  who  cared  for 
him  and  loved  him  as  if  he  were  her  own  child.  She 
felt  as  stricken  as  did  the  real  mother.  Though  by 
nature  a  monster  instead  of  a  woman,  Madame  Nitolsk, 

195 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

as  such  characters  generally  do,  enfolded  her  child,  with 
a  love  that  was  little  short  of  adoration. 

The  mother  threw  herself  upon  the  child,  beseeching 
him  to  awake.  But  Adino,  still  more  beautiful  in  this 
unconsciousness,  lay  all  unheedful  of  the  piteous  plead- 
ings of  his  frantic  mother.  She  rubbed  the  still  limp 
form  and  tried  to  take  him  in  her  arms,  but  when  she 
did  so  the  head  fell  heavily  and  the  long  soft  black  curls 
which  adorned  it  hung  down.  Here  the  nurse,  who  was 
a  very  strong  woman,  having  overcome  the  severity  of 
the  terrible  shock,  came  into  the  room  and  begged  Mad- 
ame Nitolsk  to  replace  the  child  upon  the  bed.  She  was 
successful  in  her  importunity,  and  the  child  was  again 
lying  upon  his  little  bed. 

To  all  appearances  he  was  dead — the  placid  features, 
the  pallor  of  the  skin,  the  extreme  limpness,  all  said  to 
the  mother :  "Your  Adino  is  not  here — his  body  is  here, 
but  his  soul  is  beyond  recall." 

"Suzanne,  '  tell  me,"  Madame  Nitolsk  had  turned 
toward  the  nurse,  and  her  tone  was  keenly  intense,  "tell 
me  all  you  know." 

"He  was  there,  in  his  bed,  when  I  came  in  to  get 
him,  and  he  was  sleeping  so  sweetly  that  I  thought  I 
would  let  him  have  his  sleep  out.  I  crept  out  of  the 
room  and  took  care  not  to  let  in  much  light.  I  came 
back  several  times,  but  he  slept  on.  At  last  I  came, 
intending  to  wake  him.  I  drew  back  the  night  curtains, 
and  there  he  lay,  just  like  that.  I  tried  to  wake  him, 
but  I  could  not." 

Then  the  nurse  began  to  wring  her  hands  helplessly, 
and  she  sobbed :  "Adino,  Adino,  my  darling  is  dead." 

"Dead,  not  dead,"  said  Madame  Nitolsk,  in  hollow, 
half-uttered  sound.  And  taking  the  small  ashen  face  be- 
tween her  jeweled  hands,  she  looked  at  it — pain,  joy, 
anxiety,  care,  expectancy,  pride,  fear  and  love  were  min- 

196 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

gled  in  that  one  look.  All  the  sentiments  and  emotions 
of  a  mother's  devotion  were  in  her  face  at  that  moment 
of  awful  suspense.  If  this  creature  was  not  a  woman, 
she  was  a  mother,  and  with  one  indescribable  glance — a 
glance  which  stares  helplessly  into  the  darkness  of  uncon- 
sciousness, a  glance  which  recoils  and  yet  clings,  power- 
less, while  the  relentless  reality  of  death  mocks  at  it  and 
dares  it  to  action — she  bent  over  the  silent  form  and 
kissed  it  on  the  forehead  and  on  the  cheeks  and  again 
on  the  forehead,  as  if  this  expressed  adoration  might 
recall  the  hovering  soul. 

Then  grasping  at  a  ray  of  hope  which  at  that  moment 
presented  itself,  she  seemed  half  laughing  and  half  cry- 
ing. "He  can  not  be  dead,  for  death  always  leaves  the 
eyes  wide  open."  Her  splendid  vitality  served  her  well, 
for  the  child's  appearance,  except  for  the  placidity  and  the 
pallor,  appeared  as  that  of  deep  sleep.  His  beautiful 
eyes  were  not  set  in  the  horrible  stare  known  as  the 
death-stare;  but  the  lids  covered  them  tightly,  and  the 
long  curving  eyelashes  swept  the  delicate  cheeks,  and 
their  tremulous  beauty  seemed  to  cling  most  tenderly  to 
the  soft  cheek,  as  if  a  premonition  told  them  that  ere  long 
they  must  cease  forever  to  caress  it. 

"Draw  back  the  day  curtains  from  the  windows  and 
let  in  all  the  clear  daylight." 

While  the  maid  obeyed  Madame  Nitolsk's  order,  work- 
ing quickly  and  carefully,  the  mother  espied  a  tiny  phial 
beside  the  child,  hidden  in  a  fold  of  his  night-robe.  In 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye  Madame  Nitolsk  grasped  the 
entire  situation  and  realized  the  cause  of  her  child's  con- 
dition. 

"Suzanne,  Suzanne — the  chemist,  the  chemist.  On 
your  life,  Suzanne,  quick,  the  chemist!"  The  nurse 
rushed  out. 

197 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

To  three  other  household  servants  who  had  come  in 
Madame  Nitolsk  gave  orders  to  fetch  hot  water,  medicine 
chests  and  warm  flannels.  When  she  was  alone  she 
picked  up  the  bottle  and  put  it  in  her  bosom.  She  knew 
this  to  be  the  secret  of  the  trouble — this  scene  of  horror. 
She  ran  back  in  her  mind  and  remembered  well  when 
and  how  this  had  happened.  Her  darling  had  been 
neglected.  She  had  forgotten  to  bid  him  good  night  in 
his  own  room,  and  he  had  sought  her  in  her  room,  and 
she  had  been  gone.  He  had  seen  the  phial,  for  she  now 
recalled  having  dropped  it  on  the  floor.  And  it  had 
pleased  his  fancy  and  he  had  taken  it  to  bed  with  him. 
Of  course,  he  had  not  let  the  nurse  see  it. 

It  was  all  horridly  plain  to  her  now.  And  in  her 
anguish  she  stood  like  a  living  statue.  Great  rushes  of 
color  and  pallor  surged  through  her  frame.  Her  eyes 
glittered  as  she  stared  at  the  calm  coldness  of  her  child. 
Her  fingers  dug  into  the  flesh  of  her  palms.  And  so 
violent  was  this  unexpressed  agony  that  huge  beads  of 
perspiration  stood  out  upon  her  forehead.  As  before 
noted,  this  creature  was  a  mother,  though  a  monster.  She 
had  a  heart,  though  she  had  not  a  soul.  And  this  mute 
grief  was  an  interior  conflict.  It  was  not  a  remorse;  it 
was  not  a  denunciation ;  it  was  a  convulsion,  a  melee  of 
accusing  emotions — a  torment.  For  remorse  is  the  wail- 
ing of  the  soul,  and  denunciation  is  the  rebuke  of  the 
conscience. 

She  had  done  it.  "Oh,  God !  am  I  to  kill  my  child ! 
— my  own  child !" 

The  exclamation  was  mechanical,  not  felt.  Vile  po- 
tion !  Villainous  chemist !  Accursed  hour !  And  who  had 
done  it  ? — who  ?  What  wretched  thoughts !  They  all  had 
echoes — they  blasphemed  but  one  thing — one  person — 
they  hissed  slurs  upon  her — they  heaped  crime  upon  her 
— they  overwhelmed  her  with  vivid  actings  of  the  mo- 

198 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

tive — they  called  her  by  her  real  name — sorceress — vam- 
pire— siren — intriguer — villain — foul  schemer — infamous 
soul — viper  in  human  flesh — scum  of  the  earth — bedev- 
iled female — murderess — homicide — filicide —  Unhappy 
wretch,  perdition  is  yours.  Take  it,  now  that  you  have 
made  it.  She  shut  her  eyes  and  staggered  back  just  a 
few  steps.  An  internal  tremor  had  seized  her.  Every- 
thing quivered  about  her.  Her  head  began  to  swim, 
and  her  skull  seemed  to  be  crushed  into  the  matter  of 
the  brain. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  a  low,  insinuating  voice  behind 
her. 

She  started.    It  was  the  chemist. 

"Oh,  Monsieur;  Adino  must  have  gotten  into  my 
room  last  evening  when  I  was  at  your  place,  and  he 
found  the  little  phial" — she  broke  off  abruptly  and  looked 
steadily  at  the  pharmacist.  He  raised  the  ends  of  his 
eyebrows  and  opened  his  almond-shaped  eyes,  then 
looked  at  the  limp  form,  and  his  face  grew  very  grave. 

"He  had  the  little  phial  in  the  bed  here,"  continued 
Madame  Nitolsk.  "I  suppose  he  sucked  it,  as  a  child 
would,  and  he  has  gotten  the  few  drops  that  had  run 
down  from  the  inside  of  the  bottle." 

"Was  the  phial  the  one  I  gave  you,  or  larger?"  asked 
the  chemist,  in  a  sepulchral  voice. 

"No,"  replied  Madame  Nitolsk,  producing  the  phial. 
"It  was  not  the  one  you  gave  me ;  it  is  a  trifle  smaller." 

"Ah,  I  see;  the  amount  was  small,  but  he  is  a  child, 
and  a  very  delicate  child  at  that,  and  the  potion  is  pow- 
erful." 

Madame  Nitolsk  felt  Adino's  pulse  and  then  laid  her 
ear  to  his  breast.  "Are  you  sure  he  is  not  dead?"  she 
asked.  "Can  not  you  do  something?  Do  not  stand  and 
let  him  die.  Give  him  something — recall  him  to  life! 
Save  him — save  him!" 

199 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 
i 

There  was  something  sublimely  maternal  in  the 
pleading,  outstretched  palms,  as  she  turned  her  head  and 
looked  at  her  child. 

"And  if  he  is  dead,"  she  went  on,  her  eyes  glared; 
the  tone  rattled  hard  in  her  throat,  and  her  body  moved 
toward  the  chemist  menacingly;  "if  he  is  dead" — the 
voice  had  sunk  far  down  and  growled  in  the  chest. 
"Speak  out!  I  will  not  kill  you!  I  will  only  kill  my- 
self. But  if  you  think  there  is  a  spark  of  life,  work, 
and  do  not  stand  and  look  at  him.  You  may  think  me 
mad.  No,  I  am  frenzied.  He  is  the  only  being  I  have  left 
on  earth.  And,  oh !  I  love  him !" 

The  hardened  soul  of  the  chemist  trembled  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life.  Thus  far,  in  all  the  deadly  potions 
he  had  concocted,  he  had  never  been  called  actually  to 
face  their  deadly  effect,  and  he  had  ever  held  down  by 
an  iron  hand  the  gray  matter  of  the  brain,  which  God 
had  given  him  as  the  nervous  tissue  to  arouse  images. 
This  woman  before  him  filled  him  with  terror.  He  felt 
hi-s  knees  shake.  He  shook  as  in  an  ague.  This  frantic 
woman  seemed  to  be  losing  her  mind.  What  if  she 
should  suddenly  become  crazed  and  kill  him!  He  had 
never  before  been  in  a  situation  so  appalling. 

"I  will  try,  but" — and  the  chemist  bent  very  near  the 
agonized  mother,  while  his  ugly  eyes  gleamed  and  sharp, 
irregular  teeth  could  be  seen,  as  he  continued — "you  must 
give  me  the  jewels  you  promised  me — the  ruby  neck- 
lace." 

Madame  Nitolsk  stared  at  him  as  if  she  were  in  a 
trance.  Her  lips  parted,  and  she  instinctively  drew  back. 
But  he  did  not  pause:  he  only  went  on  hastily,  though 
decidedly : 

"You  must  get  the  jewels.  There  is  no  time  to  lose, 
and  I  shall  not  lift  a  hand  to  save  your  child  unless  you 

200 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

get  me  the  necklace  at  once.    There  is  no  time  to  parley. 
Act,  if  you  wish  me  to  try." 

He  paused  and  drew  nearer  Madame  Nitolsk  and 
lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper.  "You  can  call  no  doctor, 
or  you  are  lost.  It  is  your  fault." 

"Have  mercy;  do  not  say  that  it  is  my  fault.  I  shall 
go  mad." 

'She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  her  head  half 
fell  back.  The  unhappy  woman  writhed  all  over  in  her 
torture. 

"I  am  the  only  one  you  dare  call,"  went  on  the  uncom- 
passionate  chemist.  "The  jewels  first,  and  then  I  will 
try." 

"The  jewels!"  repeated  Madame  Nitolsk — "the  jew- 
els"— as  if  she  had  just  grasped  what  the  man  had  said. 
"Oh,  to  speak  of  jewels  when  my  child  lies  there,  dying, 
or  may  be  dead.  To  let  his  life  ebb  out  and  not  move  to 
save  him ;  to  barter  in  a  death  chamber !  Oh !  villain ; 
oh,  varlet !  to  treat  me  so."  Then  she  turned  and  left  the 
room.  The  chemist,  after  feeling  the  pulse,  opened  the 
child's  mouth  and  then  closed  it. 

"Here,"  said  the  chemist,  turning  toward  the  nurse, 
who  had  just  come  in ;  "go  to  my  pharmacy  and  tell  the 
clerk  to  give  you  the  black  box  on  the  bottom  shelf  of  the 
safe.  He  will  understand  from  that.  Be  quick." 

The  nurse  went  from  the  room  in  a  whirl  of  excite- 
ment and  soon  returned  with  the  box. 

"Fetch  me  some  wine  and  some  water,"  said  the 
chemist,  as  Suzanne  handed  him  the  black  box. 

The  broken-hearted  nurse,  casting  her  sad,  swollen 
eyes  toward  her  baby  Adino,  gathered  her  apron  to  her 
face  and  sobbed  aloud  as  she  left  the  room,  carrying  the 
order. 

"Here,"  said  Madame  Nitolsk,  as  she  put  a  little  gold 
jewel-box  into  the  chemist's  hand;  "hide  this  at  once; 

2OI 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

here  comes  the  nurse,  and  never  say  one  word  of  it." 

She  had  reentered  the  room  and  stood  at  the  foot  of 
the  little  golden  bed  in  which  her  child  lay.  . 

He  took  the  box,  and,  as  if  practicing  sleight  of  hand, 
put  it  into  his  pocket.  He  said  nothing,  but  began  gath- 
ering into  a  small  glass  a  speck  of  dust  from  one  phial 
and  then  a  speck  from  another  and  another,  until  he  had 
satisfied  himself  that  he  had  a  combination  of  active 
principles — at  least  an  active  principle  sufficiently  potent 
to  overcome  the  forces  of  nature,  which  at  that  time 
were  operating  fearfully  fast  for  the  dissolution  of  the 
beautiful  being  lying  there  in  helpless  innocence.  The 
chemist  opened  Adino's  mouth,  and  by  means  of  a  small 
syringe  sprayed  the  inside  of  the  mouth.  Then  he  closed 
the  mouth  and  held  it  closed  for  a  few  moments,  when 
he  prepared  another  dose  and  repeated  the  process. 

His  face  was  not  readable.  It  would  seem  a  thing 
never  to  be  possible  that  the  same  spirit — the  spirit  of 
God — could  be  breathed  into  two  persons  made  of  the 
same  material — dust  of  the  earth — and  rest  within  such 
molds,  that  formed  day  by  day  into  shapes  so  directly 
opposite — the  one  a  creature  with  whom  one  would  asso- 
ciate only  attributes  the  highest,  while  with  the  chemist 
one  could  find'  nothing  that  was  not  at  once  odious  and 
repellant.  At  last  the  chemist  paused  and  stood  shaking 
his  head,  and  adding  another  inch  to  the  leng'th  of  his 
face.  And  with  a  premonitory  shake  of  his  head  he 
spoke:  "He  is  worse  than  I  thought,  but  I'll  do  all  that 
science  can  do." 

He  knew  that  this  wicked  woman  of  fabulous  wealth 
loved  that  small  bit  of  humanity  with  an  undying  love. 
He  knew,  too,  that  if  he  wished  he  could  get  more  than 
the  pigeon-blood  ruby  necklace  which  was  now  within 
his  keeping. 

202 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"Oh!  save  my  child,  Monsieur — save  him — save  him 
— and  you  shall  have  all  the  jewels  I  possess." 

"I'll  do  my  best,  I'll  do  my  best,  Madame  Nitolsk." 

"Save  him !  save  him !  save  him !  This  she  stood  re- 
peating, until  he  pointed  to  a  faint  purplish  tinge  passing 
along  by  the  temple.  "There !  see,  the  heart  flutters." 

Madame  Nitolsk  clasped  her  hands  and  cast  her  eyes 
upward,  as  if  about  to  pray.  Then  her  face  grew  hard. 
She  remembered  that  she  had  never  trusted  in  .God.  She 
had  never  so  much  as  thought  there  was  a  God.  In  fact, 
she  had  never  sent  out  into  the  world  a  thought  unmin- 
gled  with  thoughts  of  self.  In  this,  the  bitterest  hour 
she  had  ever  known,  she  had  nowhere  to  look  for  help — 
to  no  one,  except  it  were  the  skeleton  now  bending  over 
her  child  and  administering  draughts,  of  whose  potency 
she  dare  not  think.  She  only  hoped,  in  her  own  way,  that 
all  would  yet  be  well.  The  efforts  of  the  old  chemist 
continued;  likewise  the  stupor  of  the  child. 

Madame  Nitolsk  went  out  and  called  up  the  Trent 
residence  by  'phone.  A  valet  of  Lieutenant  Trent  must 
have  answered  the  call,  for  Madame  Nitolsk  said:  "The 
valet  of  Lieutenant  Trent?  Oh!  is  Lady  Trent  there? 
Ah,  she  is  with  the  artist,  Nevere.  Is  Lieutenant  Trent 
there?"  again  inquired  the  voice  of  Madame  Nitolsk. 

The  listener  at  the  other  end  of  the  line  must  have 
answered  in  the  negative,  but  added  his  whereabouts, 
for  Madame  Nitolsk  repeated,  "He  is  at  the  club." 

Then  there  was  a  silence,  in  which  Madame  Nitolsk 
listened.  At  last  she  spoke.  "Get  whichever  you  can, 
Lieutenant  or  Lady  Trent.  And,  if  you  please,  do  it  at 
once.  Tell  them  to  come  to  Madame  Nitolsk."  Her 
voice  trembled,  and  she  vainly  struggled  to  control  it. 
After  listening  a  moment  she  added :  "They  know  where 
Madame  Nitolsk  lives,  on  Rue  Caumartin — yes — Rue 

203 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

Caumartin,  near  the  Opera.  Tell  them  that  the  little  son 
of  Madame  Nitolsk  is  dying." 

Then  she  hung  up  the  receiver  and  again  came  to  the 
side  of  her  child.  Fifteen  minutes  passed  by,  with  not 
the  slightest  sign  of  a  change  in  the  condition  of  the 
child's  appearance.  The  chemist  worked  persistently,  and 
Suzanne  and  three  other  servants  worked  as  directed  by 
the  chemist.  Through  all  this  scene  Madame  Nitolsk 
moved  in  a  mad  walk,  back  and  forth  around  the  room, 
pleading  and  beseeching  the  image  of  death — this  chem- 
ist— to  save  her  child,  and  promising  wealth  untold. 

"Madame  Nitolsk!  why,  what  has  happened?"  asked 
Lieutenant  Trent,  who  at  this  moment  entered  the  room. 

"Oh !  Lieutenant,  my  dear  friend !  it  is  so  dreadful — 
so  dreadful !  See,  my  darling  boy — my  Adinino — such  a 
sad — oh!  if  he  dies  I  shall  surely  die,  too."  All  this  she 
vented,  broken  by  most  heart-rending  sobs  and  amidst 
the  wildest  of  gesticulations. 

Lieutenant  Trent  saw  that  she  seemed  in  danger  of  a 
collapse,  and  he  tenderly  took  hold  of  her,  at  the  same 
time  saying  to  the  butler,  who  stood  near:  "Let  us  lead 
the  Madame  to  an  easy  seat." 

They  led  her,  or  rather  carried  her,  and  finally  put 
her  down  upon  a  deep  sofa  in  an  adjoining  room.  Then 
Lieutenant  Trent  pulled  up  a  chair  and  sat  facing  her. 
"It  is  serious,  I  see.  What  is  it?"  he  asked  of  the  butler. 

Madame  Nitolsk  heard  the  question,  and,  opening  her 
eyes,  looked  at  Trent  and  answered : 

"The  servants  are  ignorant  of  all.  Go,  Philippe," 
she  said  to  the  butler.  Then  turning  to  the  Lieutenant, 
she  began : 

"I  was  out  last  evening  and  was  detained  beyond  the 
hour  I  had  expected  to  be  home.  Adino  must  have  gone 
to  my  room  at  the  usual  hour  to  say  good  night.  This 
morning  nurse  brought  me  the  intelligence  of  his  condi- 

204 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

tion,  and  when  I  examined  his  body  this  tiny  bottle  was 
by  his  side — close  up  in  the  folds  of  his  night-robe.  It  is 
a  phial  which  had  contained  a  toothache  medicine,  and, 
fortunately — oh !  so  fortunately — so  fortunately" — 

Here  she  seemed  unable  to  go  on,  for  she  again  gave 
way  to  wild  bursts  of  passionate  grief.  Lieutenant  Trent 
tried  to  soothe  her,  but  in  vain. 

"Come,  quick;  Adino  is  moving!"  cried  the  nurse,  as 
she  rushed  into  the  room.  Madame  Nitolsk  leaped  from 
the  sofa  and  fled  out  of  the  room,  quickly  followed  by 
the  nurse  and  Lieutenant  Trent. 

The  chemist  was  working  constantly.  He  had  scarce- 
ly straightened  his  skeleton  frame  since  bending  over  the 
child.  When  Madame  Nitolsk  saw  that  Adino  was  mov- 
ing feebly,  she  knelt  at  the  side  of  his  bed,  and,  taking 
the  little  hand  between  her  own,  she  bowed  her  head 
above  it.  Adino  made  an  effort  to  draw  it  away.  It  was 
only  a  spasmodic  effort,  and  not  at  all  voluntary. 

Trent  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  silence  reigned 
in  the  room,  except  for  the  faint  movement  of  the  air  as 
the  chemist  passed  his  hands  back  and  forth  over  the 
child. 

At  last  Adino  slowly  opened  his  eyes  and  looked 
straight  in  front  of  him.  "Adino,  my  darling!  speak  to 
mama,"  cried  Madame  Nitolsk,  for  she  had  seen  the  long 
curving  lashes  sweep  upward.  But  he  only  stared  ab- 
sently in  front  of  him.  His  mother  continued  to  call  him 
by  every  endearing  term,  no  doubt,  quite  familiar  to  him ; 
but  he  seemed  not  to  hear  anything.  She  leaned  over 
him  and  pleaded :  "Adinino,  look  at  mama !  here  is 
mama !  Adinino,  my  baby,  speak  to  mama !" 

He  had  closed  his  eyes  and  all  was  again  silent.  She 
ceased  to  weep  or  to  speak  and  stood  in  a  bent  posture 
above  the  body  of  her  child,  but  he  moved  not.  He  was 
still  and  motionless,  as  he  had  been  at  the  first.  He 

205 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

always  seemed  more  than  human,  but  now  in  the  pallor 
there  was  a  halo  surrounding  her  baby.  Her  face  grew 
strangely  bright.  It  was  the  look  of  the  penitent  kneel- 
ing before  the  saint. 

Adino  again  opened  his  eyes,  and  they  seemed  set  in 
a  very  unnatural  stare, .while  the  beautiful  mouth  was 
closed.  Then  the  nurse  began  to  cry  and  wail:  "He  is 
dying — he  is  dying — I  know,  for  I  have  seen  people  die — 
that  is  the  way  they  look.  Oh !  oh !  my  baby — my  baby — 
my  baby !" 

The  nurse  was  a  very  devout  Catholic,  and  now  began 
to  pray:  "Oh!  God  in  heaven,  have  mercy;  save 
Adinino !  save  Adinino !  Take  me,  oh  God ;  take  me,  in- 
stead! Save  him!  Save  him!" 

She  lay  sobbing  where  she  had  knelt  by  the  side  of 
the  bed,  with  her  head  pressed  down  into  her  hands. 

The  chemist  kept  patiently  at  work  all  the  time,  and 
never  lost  a  moment  from  watching  closely  the  pallid 
features  of  little  Adino. 

Trent  still  stood  at  his  place  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
looking  intently  upon  the  living  death  of  this  beauteous 
creature,  lying  there  helpless  in  the  toils  of  seeming  dis- 
solution. The  child's  lips  began  to  move.  He  was  trying 
to  speak.  He  tried  again. 

"Look !"  said  the  chemist ;  "look !  Madame  Nitolsk,  he 
is  trying  to  speak."  All  listened  in  breathless  anxiety,  lest 
they  should  not  catch  what  he  might  say.  Silence 
reigned  for  some  time.  Then  a  hollow,  small  voice  said 
faintly : 

"Wher — where — is th — t that 

Then  all  was  quite  <still  for  a  time,  save  for  the 
smothered  moaning  of  the  old  nurse,  who  wailed  in  an- 
guish: "Oh!  mignon!  mignon!  mignon!  Ah — ah — 
Adinino !" 

Again  the  voice  of  the  child  broke  the  silence.  "Whe — 

206 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

re is  —  t th that —  Where — is — that — 

th— at angel  ?" 

A  long  silence  followed,  for  Adino  closed  his  eyes, 
and  Madame  Nitolsk  fell  upon  her  knees  and  buried  her 
face  in  the  pillows. 

Then  Adino's  lips  again  moved,  and  his  eyes  opened 
wearily. 

Madame  Nitolsk  had  put  her  head  in  front  of  her 
child's  face,  so  as  he  looked  he  stared  into  her  face. 

"No "  said  Adino,  wanderingly ;  "My*  angel  is — 

a — re — e — al an — gel my  —  an — n — n — 

gel has blue  eyes and  —  an — d — d  — 

—  go — golden  —  hair." 

Madame  Nitolsk  recoiled  as  if  struck.  The  nurse  had 
stopped  crying  and  was  fervently  praying.  Every  now 
and  then  she  looked  at  Adino  and  then  at  the  chemist, 
and  then  at  her  mistress.  These  three  formed  a  group 
at  the  head  of  the  bed,  one  on  either  side  and  the  child 
upon  the  bed.  And  then  she  would  go  on  praying.  Once 
when  she  looked  up  from  her  prayers  she  was  attracted 
by  the  flash  of  sunlight  reflected  from  the  sword  of  the 
young  English  Lieutenant.  She  knew  who  he  was,  for 
he  had  come  every  day  for  the  past  three  days  to  the 
home  of  Madame,  her  mistress.  She  had  learned  from 
Yvonne,  the  special  maid  of  Madame  Nitolsk,  many  small 
particulars.  Then,  too,  little  things  dropped  from 
the  lips  of  Madame  herself.  Suzanne  had  matched  her 
thus  gained  knowledge  and  had  weaved  it  to  suit  her 
fancy.  He  was  a  young  English  officer.  He  had  great 
wealth,  for  he  lived  in  a  mansion  with  gold-painted  iron 
gates  on  the  Elysees.  His  name  was  Sir  Reginald  Trent. 
He  was  heir  to  some  great  English  title.  He  was  a  Lieu- 
tenant in  the  British  army.  He  had  met  her  mistress  in 
India,  and  when  Madame  had  come  to  Paris  he  had 
come,  too.  Her  mistress  was  a  widow,  young,  beautiful, 

207 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

• 

captivating  and  wealthy.  But  what  was  in  the  face  of 
the  old  nurse  was  not  a  regard  of  this  nature.  When  she 
had  been  attracted  by  the  reflected  flashing  she  had 
looked  at  the  sword,  and  then  she  had  given  a  start  and 
had  stared  at  the  face  of  the  soldier;  then  she  had 
dropped  her  head  as  if  ruminating  something  long  before 
noted;  but  she  did  not  look  down  long.  She  looked  up 
again  and  scrutinized  the  young  officer,  his  face,  his  uni- 
form, his  bearing,  his  all.  She  looked  so  steadily  and 
fiercely  that  her  brow  knit,  her  eyes  grew  small  and  her 
mouth  opened  a  very  little.  She  was  comparing  some- 
thing mental  with  something  physical.  All  of  a  sudden 
her  eyes  opened  wide,  her  brow  relaxed,  her  mouth  drew 
straight  back.  She  had  found  what  she  had  been  search- 
ing for.  She  endeavored  to  reach  the  officer  without 
attracting  the  attention  of  the  other  watchers.  When 
she  had  come  to  a  spot  close  to  him  she  stopped  and 
looked  quietly  up  at  him,  and  not  a  little  fearfully. 

"Monseigneur" — that  was  all  could  be  heard,  for  she 
followed  the  address  in  a  tone  so  discreetly  lowered  that 
no  one  heard  what  she  said  to  cause  the  English  officer 
to  start  and  regard  her  with  a  look  of  amazement,  as  she 
proceeded  with  what  must  have  been  a  revelation  of 
some  sort,  and  a  revelation  which  embraced  in  itself 
something  relating  to  Adino,  if  it  did  not  embrace  Adino 
himself. 

The  officer  looked  from  her  face,  upon  which  she  had 
held  his  gaze  riveted,  to  the  deathlike  form  of  little 
Adino.  The  nurse  pursed  her  brow,  endavoring  to  im- 
press this  great  man  with  the  urgency  of  a  compliance 
with  the  conditions,  whose  acceptance  or  refusal  meant 
life  or  death.  All  this  the  student  of  human  life  in  ac- 
tion could  very  easily  have  seen. 

"Go  find  some  one  with  golden  hair  and  blue  eyes," 
said  the  chemist,  straightening  his  ghoulish  figure;  "it 

208 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

makes  no  difference  who,  just  so  it  answers  the  descrip- 
tion." 

Madame  Nitolsk  did  not  hear  him..  She  seemed 
crushed  and  lay  with  her  head  buried  in  the  cushions 
around  her  son.  She  was  bereft  of  any  strength  she 
might  have  had.  Cunning  needs  little  strength,  and 
strength  requires  no  cunning — a  wise  provision  of  nature. 

Lieutenant  Trent  was  still  listening  to  the  nurse,  who 
was  certainly  capable  of  interesting  the  brave  officer  with 
her  bit  of  information.  That  form  of  ceremony  such  as 
should  have  been  observed  between  the  servant  and  the 
officer  was,  for  the  time,  swept  away.  The  chemist  looked 
upon  the  mother;  she  was  helpless  in  her  wild  grief.  He 
looked  upon  the  servants,  but  they  all  seemed  stricken 
with  fear,  for  servants  are  always  superstitious  in  the 
presence  of  death.  Then  he  looked  with  contumely  at 
the  strong  officer,  and  wondered  why  he  should  be  so 
forgetful  as  to  chat  with  a  serving  maid  at  a  moment 
when  the  energies  of  all  should  be  directed  toward  assist- 
ing him.  , 

"Go,"  he  cried,  in  tones  that  carried  authority;  "go 
at  once ;  get  some  one.  He  is  dying — go  quick,  or  it  will 
be  too  late." 


209 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Julia  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  her  room,  reading 
a  letter  which  she  had  just  opened.  She  was  still  in 
street  attire,  not  having  removed  even  her  hat,  coat  or 
gloves.  She  had  just  returned  from  luncheon,  which 
she  had  taken  across  the  way,  a  bit  up  the  street ;  indeed, 
at  the  farthest  end  of  the  square  from  her  place.  But  it 
was  a  very  short  little  square. 

As  she  read,  a  bright  smile  playe"d  over  her  face,  and 
every  now  and  then  a  word  like  "Good,"  "Bravo,"  es- 
caped her  lips. 

After  finishing  her  letter  she  removed  her  hat  and 
coat  and  took  her  accustomed  seat  in  the  arm-chair,  in 
which  she  had  rested  daily  for  fully  fifteen  minutes  after 
coming  from  luncheon.  It  was  a  rule  of  health  relig- 
iously observed  by  her,  in  order  that  she  would  be  sure 
of  proper  digestion  having  taken  place.  Once,  at  the 
beginning  of  her  studies  with  Signor  Novara,  she  had 
been  bothered  into  a  crimsoning  by  the  startling  ques- 
tion: "What  did  you  eat  for  luncheon?"  And  as  she  had 
not  answered,  the  master  had  explained  why  he  had  put 
that  question.  He  always  asked  after  the  health  of  his 
pupils,  for  he  said :  "If  you  keep  well,  you  are  living  prop- 
erly, and  if  you  do  not  keep  well,  then  you  are  living  im- 
properly ;  and  if  you  are  living  wrong,  then  you  can  not 
sing." 

So  in  compliance  with  the  mild  request  of  Signor  No- 
vara, Julia  had  always  spent  fifteen  minutes  after  each 
meal  in  pleasant  thoughts,  and  seated,  if  possible. 

At  this  time  she  dwelt  upon  the  pleasant  features  of 
210 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

the  letter,  for  naturally  it  filled  her  every  thought.  She 
smiled  at  recollection  of  it. 

Madame  Cinati  had  scored  a  signal  success  and  had 
wired  of  her  great  triumphs  on  Thursday  night,  when 
she  had  sung  Ophelia.  She  had  been  called  to  the  royal 
box  after  the  finish  of  the  Mad  Scene.  The  next  day  she 
had  received  a  necklace  bearing  the  royal  initial  and  a 
command  to  sing  before  the  King  and  Queen  at  the 
palace. 

The  telegram  had  also  said  that  she  had  sent  the 
press  comments.  This  was  the  first  time  that  Madame 
Cinati  had  complied  with  Julia's  request  to  send  her  the 
papers  of  the  city  in  which  Madame  sang. 

The  future  of  Julia  Pembroke,  the  American  singer, 
passed  in  kaleidoscopic  views  before  her,  showing  her- 
self in  the  long-delayed  debut. 

Here  a  faint  knock  at  the  door  broke  off  her  pleasant 
reverie. 

Julia  knew  it  must  be  some  one  doing  service  of  some 
kind,  for  she  was  well  aware  of  the  custom  of  the  house, 
which  forbade  servants  using  the  bell.  She  arose  and 
opened  the  door. 

"Pardon,  Mademoiselle,  here  is  a  letter  which  fell  be- 
hind the  table  this  morning.  I  am  very  sorry,  Mademoi- 
selle, that  I  am  so  tardy  in  delivering  it." 

"There  is  no  harm  done,"  said  Julia;  "it  is  not  very 
late.  Thank  you." 

She  closed  the  door  and  scrutinized  the  superscrip- 
tion. She  endeavored  to  read  the  postmark:  "L-o-n — 
It  must  be  London."  Though  as  to  this  she  would  remain 
in  ignorance  until  she  opened  it  and  read  inside.  This 
she  lost  no  time  in  doing,  and  eagerly  broke  the  seal. 

It  was  London.  But  who  could  it  be  from  ?  She  sel- 
dom received  letters  from  any  one,  and  this  letter — pen- 
manship and  all — was  most  assuredly  a  mystery. 

211 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

Though  she  had  made  many  friends — rather,  formal 
acquaintances — there  was  not  one  whom  she  deemed  suf- 
ficiently intimate  to  send  her  so  long  a  communication. 
She  turned  at  once  to  the  back  and  read  the  bold  black 
signature. 

Oh!  joy  untold!  It  was  signed  the  impresario  of 
Covent  Garden,  London.  Her  hands  trembled  beyond 
control.  This  was  an  unexpected  delight.  For  a  time  it 
seemed  that  her  head  swam.  She  felt  faint  and  sought 
the  security  of  her  armchair  near  the  window. 

He  had  written  that  on  a  certain  date,  two  years  be- 
fore, he  had  heard  her  sing  at  a  "Benefit  of  Douai,"  and 
that  he  had  seen  then  she  had  an  extraordinary  voice; 
that  a  few  days  since,  on  speaking  with  the  Princesse 
de  Grancourt  regarding  a  benefit  concert  which  he  was 
about  to  give,  she  had  suggested  to  him  the  name  of  Mad- 
emoiselle Pembroke,  of  Paris,  an  artist-pupil  of  Signor 
Enrico  Novara. 

That  he  relied  much  upon  the  excellent  judgment  of 
the  Princesse  de  Grancourt,  since  she  had  shown  marked 
ability  on  several  occasions  in  aiding  at  the  selection  of 
participants  when  he  was  arranging  for  concerts.  That 
Madame  la  Princesse  had  said  there  was  much  improve- 
ment in  Mademoiselle  Pembroke's  voice  during  her 
studies  of  the  past  two  years. 

The  Princess  had  heard  Miss  Pembroke  at  an  audi- 
tion given  by  Signor  Novara,  and  that  he  himself  recalled 
the  beauty  of  her  voice.  He  now  made  her  this  offer, 
and  hoped  that  he  might  be  able  to  present  her  to  the 
London  world  as  the  first  lyric  prima  donna  of  Covent 
Garden.  Since  in  April  one  of  the  singers  would  leave 
London  and  go  to  Berlin,  he  wished  to  have  the  place 
vacated  by  this  soprano  filled  by  Mademoiselle  Pembroke. 
The  operas  in  which  she  would  have  to  appear  were 
"Faust,"  "La  Boheme,"  "Rigoletto"  and  "Lucia."  That 

212 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS.      • 

she  was  privileged  to  select  from  the  foregoing  number 
the  opera  in  which  she  would  prefer  to  make  her  debut. 
That  the  first  two  weeks  of  the  season,  commencing  April 
30,  would  be  devoted  to  the  Wagnerian  cycle,  thus  giv- 
ing her  over  three  months  in  which  to  prepare  herself, 
by  coaching  with  the  master,  in  the  operas  required  of 
her.  That  her  salary  would  be  £160  a  month. 

When  Julia  had  finished  reading  the  letter  she  went 
to  the  beginning  and  started  to  read  it  anew.  She  read 
a  thought,  then  looked  out  o_f  the  window,  saying  to  her- 
self that  she  had  sung  at  that  "Benefit  of  Douai"  to  please 
a  -friend  of  Madame  Cinati's.  She  thought  of  the  little 
verse  she  had  learned  when  a  very  young  child — far  too 
young  to  know  its  meaning — "Cast  thy  bread  upon  the 
waters,  and  thou  shalt  gather  it  after  many  days." 

Here  was  an  offer  to  sing  at  Covent  Garden,  and  for 
no  mean  salary,  at  that,  and  all  because  this  impresario 
had  heard  her  sing  at  that  benefit.  She  remembered, 
too,  the  great  reluctance  upon  the  part  of  the  master  to 
let  her  sing  at  that  place.  She  laughed  now  as  she  re- 
called the  scene  when  she  had  asked  permission  to  sing. 

Signer  Novara  had  said :  "Singing  at  benefits  is  all 
very  well,  after  one  is  through  with  the  years  of  prepara- 
tory study  and  after  acceptance  by  the  music-loving 
critics.  But  if  you  go  out  to  sing  everywhere  before  I 
have  you  finished,  you  will  do  your  voice  great  harm.  I 
would  advise  you  not  to  sing  a  song  for  any  one  until 
your  study  period  is  over." 

She  looked  over  the  top  of  her  letter,  loth  to  leave 
contemplations  so  sweet.  What  could  be  more  delightful, 
more  intoxicating,  than  a  promised  debut  at  one  of  the 
most  renowned  opera  houses  in  the  world,  in  the  largest 
city  and  in  a  realm  ?  And  all  this  to  a  youthful  debutante, 
who  had  studied  six  long  years.  She  could  easily  prepare 

213 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

all  the  operas  named  in  the  letter  by  the  date  set  for  her 
debut. 

Yes,  she  would  sing  Lucia  as  her  first  role,  if  she 
accepted ;  she  would  speak  of  it  to  Signor  Novara  when 
she  should  go  to  the  lesson  to-day. 

Then  she  wondered  if  the  King  and  Queen  would  be 
in  the  royal  box  when  she  should  sing  there,  and  if  their 
Majesties  would  like  her  singing.  She  lived  in  retro- 
spect again.  A  small  scene  came  before  her,  a  visionary 
picture  of  herself,  which  she  had  imagined  in  childhood — 
far  back  on  a  vast  stage  stood  a  small  creature  in  pink. 
Many  jewels  flashed  from  her  head  and  body  and  she 
was  singing.  People  sat  in  the  aisles  and  stood  in  the 
corridors.  There  was  a  twinkling  of  lights,  a  reflection 
of  gems — a  mere  movement  of  perfumed  air.  Great 
throngs  waited  outside,  in  a  drizzling,  steady  rain.  Han- 
soms and  cabs  were  hurrying  in  all  directions.  It  was 
the  London  of  a  child's  dream — the  debut  of  herself — 
the  longing  of  a  born  singer. 

She  folded  the  letter  with  much  deliberation,  and  then 
went  toward  the  mantel,  upon  which  she  placed  it.  Then 
she  sat  down  at  the  table,  where  lay  the  open  score  of 
"Lucia,"  in  which  the  master  had  continued  her  studies. 

She  placed  her  elbows  upon  the  table,  one  on  either 
side  of  the  music,  and,  leaning  forward,  she  buried  her 
forehead  in  the  curve  formed  by  her  fingers,  and  began 
the  repetition  of  the  words  of  the  score.  In  this  way, 
shading  her  eyes  and  resting  her  head,  the  brain  was 
eased.  She  worked  steadily  for  some  minutes.  Then, 
as  if  seized  by  some  force  supernatural,  she  suddenly 
lifted  her  head,  and,  resting  her  chin  upon  the  back  of 
her  locked  fingers,  stared  hard  in  front  of  her.  Her  eyes 
were  almost  closed,  and  certainly  she  was  not  busy  com- 
mitting the  score  of  "Lucia." 

214 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

No,  she  was  far  away — doing  what?  It  were  diffi- 
cult, indeed,  to  tell  just  what  was  at  that  moment  trans- 
piring within  the  scope  of  her  mental  vision.  She  her- 
self could  not,  if  she  would,  have  defined  or  described  the 
strange  feeling.  She  only  knew  that  this  was  a  very 
strange  experience  for  her.  She  had  never  been  troubled 
by  anything  of  a  nature  to  prevent  the  concentration  of 
her  mind  upon  a  given  subject.  And  now,  here  she  was 
giving  way  to  an  idle  thought  about  a  beautiful  child 
that  she  had  seen  the  afternoon  before. 

She  turned  impatiently  to  her  work,  chiding  herself 
for  such  weakness.  But  again  the  image  of  the  beautiful 
child  was  before  her.  Only  this  time  a  yearning  gentle- 
ness was  in  the  large,  black,  pleading  eyes,  which  re- 
strained her  brain  and  held  her  in  their  grasp,  until  she 
felt  her  entire  being  shaken  by  a  nervous  chill. 

"Pshaw !"  she  exclaimed ;  "this  is  surely  the  strangest 
experience  of  my  life.  What  can  be  the  matter  with 
me?  I  wonder  if  I  am  giddy  over  this  great  offer  from 
London.  I  shall  certainly  grieve  the  master  this  after- 
noon, for  I  have  committed  but  two  pages. 

"Ah !  there  are  those  pleading  eyes  again !  Why  does 
my  mind  revert  to  them  constantly  ?  Oh !  what  pathos ! 
And  I  have  seen  this  picture  of  that  child  since  noon 
to-day !  It  came  to  me  at  luncheon,  and  I  have  not  been 
able  to  chase  it  away !  Though  he  was  surprisingly  beau- 
tiful in  his  sweet,  childish  simplicity — this  does  not  ex- 
cuse my  very  foolish,  uncontrollable  weakness  to  waste 
my  time  in  thoughts  of  him.  I  will  not  waste  another 
moment." 

Ding!  ding!  ding!  the  doorbell  rang  vigorously,  and 
rang  three  times. 

As  no  one  but  Madame  Cinati  or  Lady  Trent  ever 
gave  her  bell  three  pulls,  when  Julia  opened  the  door  she 
was  not  surprised  to  find  Lady  Trent. 

215 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"Ah!  good  afternoon,  Lady  Trent.  I  am  very  glad 
indeed  to  see  you."  This  she  said  while  taking  Lady 
Trent  by  the  arm  and  leading  her  to  a  sofa  in  the  sitting 
room.  Lady  Trent  had  not  waited  to  be  invited,  but  had 
entered  as  soon  as  Julia  had  opened  the  door. 

"Thank  you,  my  sweet  child,"  said  Lady  Trent ;  "you 
are  very  kind,  indeed.  Do  not  remove  my  furs,  dear," 
she  went  on,  for  Julia  had  begun  to  unfasten  the  long, 
silver-fox  stole.  Then  glancing  toward  the  table,  on 
which  she  saw  Julia's  open  book,  she  continued,  though 
in  a  question :  "Were  you  studying  ?" 

"No,  I  was  only  looking  at  the  lesson,"  answered 
Julia,  for  she  felt  that  she  had  not  been  studying. 

"Now,  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  do  me  a  favor,  Julia." 

"Please  demand,  my  dear  Lady  Trent,  and  if  it  is  pos- 
sible, I  shall  comply  with  your  request." 

"The  little  son  of  Madame  Nitolsk  is  very  ill,  and  he 
is  constantly  calling  for  some  one  whom  he  calls  'an 
angel,  with  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair.'  Will  you  go  and 
see  him?" 

"Assuredly,  at  once;  the  disease  is  not  contagious,  I 
hope." 

"Oh,  no;"  replied  Lady  Trent.  "He  took  some  kind 
of  toothache  powders  or  drops — some  accident — at  least, 
it  was  by  mistake.  That  is  all  I  know." 

"Have  you  been  there?"  asked  Julia. 

"No,  Reginald  had  been  called  there  by  'phone,  and 
had  left  there  and  was  coming  up  Champs  Elysees  when 
I  met  him.  He  was  going  to  find  me  at  Monsieur  Ne- 
vere's,  but  I  had  been  at  the  English  Embassy  instead, 
and  was  on  my  way  home.  He  told  me  of  the  child's 
illness  and  asked  me  to  fetch  you." 

"How  strange!  I  did  not  know  that  Madame  Nitolsk 
had  a  child!"  exclaimed  Julia,  rather  listlessly,  for  she 
had  finished  her  preparation  to  accompany  Lady  Trent 

216 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

and  was  thinking  if  she  had  not  better  'phone  the  maes- 
tro. Then  she  had  an  after-thought,  that  since  the  lesson 
was  not  until  a  late  hour,  she  might  yet  be  able  to  go 
to  Signer  Novara's  place.  If  not,  she  would  send  some 
one  in  time  so  as  not  to  cause  the  master  to  wait  her 
coming. 

"Here  are  your  gloves,  child,"  said  Lady  Trent,  for 
she  noticed  Julia's  abstraction. 

The  gloves  were  lying  where  Julia  had  dropped  them 
in  her  haste  to  read  the  letter  from  London. 

"Ah !  thank  you,  Lady  Trent." 

"Fortunately,  I  came  in  the  automobile,"  observed 
Lady  Trent,  as  they  went  out  together.  "We  can  speed 
there  in  a  very  short  time." 

A  few  minutes  later  Lady  Trent  and  Julia  had  de- 
scended at  the  home  of  Madame  Nitolsk,  and  the  butler 
opened  to  their  ring. 

He  was  a  very  important  personage — a  French  but- 
ler, in  livery  of  purple  velvet,  with  a  yellow  satin  sash 
passing  over  the  left  shoulder  and  meeting  at  the  waist 
line,  under,  but  a  little  in  front,  of  the  left  arm.  From 
the  bottom  of  the  sash,  which  reached  to  the  knee,  hung 
deep  and  very  heavy  gold  fringe.  There  was  a  crest 
in  gold  upon  the  front  of  the  sash  and  a  little  to  the  left. 

Lady  Trent  saw  the  crest  and  recognized  it  as  the 
heraldic  bearings  of  a  noble  Roman  family.  When  they 
were  in  the  vestibule,  the  butler  was  about  to  speak,  but 
Lady  Trent,  seeing  her  son  descending  the  grand  marble 
staircase,  which  could  be  seen  through  the  open  crystal 
doors  between  the  vestibule  and  the  large  reception  hall, 
went  toward  him,  followed  by  Julia. 

"This  way,  mother,"  said  Trent.  "Ah !  so  glad  you 
came,"  he  said  to  Julia,  approaching  and  taking  her  by 
the  hand,  and,  bending  over  it,  touched  it  to  his  lips.  "I 
thank  you  very,  very  much  for  your  kindness." 

217 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"I  am  sure  I  am  glad  to  come  if  I  can  in  any  way 
serve  the  little  child." 

"This  way,"  and,  taking  Julia's  arm  and  tenderly  as- 
sisting his  mother  on  his  right,  they  ascended  the  broad 
marble  staircase. 

On  entering  Adino's  room  Julia  recognized  the  man, 
who  seemed  to  be  acting  in  the  capacity  of  doctor,  as  the 
chemist  of  whom  she  had  at  various  times  made  pur- 
chases of  sundry,  insignificant  articles.  She  thought 
nothing  of  his  being  there  instead  of  a  visiting  physician, 
for  chemists  in  Paris  are  well  educated,  and  know  the 
use  and  effect  of  all  drugs. 

Several  servants  were  about  the  bed,  so  Julia  could 
not  see  the  little  one  as  they  entered  the  bedchamber. 
Some  other  very  serious-looking  servants  stood  here  and 
there  about  the  room,  with  towels,  cups,  spoons  and  other 
articles,  for  which,  no  doubt,  the  chemist  had  called. 

A  maid  knelt  in  the  corner,  beyond  the  bed.  Her 
swollen  eyes  and  set,  haggard  face  and  pale  lips  told  of 
the  dejected  condition  of  her  spirits.  Her  fingers  told 
the  beads,  in  which,  without  doubt,  she  had  unbounded 
confidence,  that  through  the  good  spirit  she  invoked  little 
Adino  would  live.  And  who  can  say  that  her  prayers 
were  not  the  measure  of  devotion  yet  required  to  bring 
into  healthy  action  the  little  organism  into  which  the  old 
chemist  was  pouring  his  potions,  in  which  he  had  confi- 
dence like  unto  that  of  the  believer  in  spiritual  force.  If 
the  spiritual  and  physical — faith  and  work — are  required 
to  save  a  soul  and  fit  it  for  heaven,  why  is  it  not  possible 
that  the  physician's  efficacy  would  be  very  materially 
aided  by  the  prayers  of  the  righteous? 

Lady  Trent  and  Julia  went  toward  Madame  Nitolsk 
to  offer  words  of  sympathy  and  condolence.  Lady  Trent 
took  a  chair  by  the  side  of  the  one  in  which  Madame 
Nitolsk  was  seated,  and,  taking  her  hands,  chafed  first 

218 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

one  and  then  the  other  in  a  genuinely  sympathetic  man- 
ner. Julia,  however,  not  experienced  in  scenes  such  as 
this  before  her — in  fact,  never  only  at  the  death  of  her 
father  having  found  herself  in  a  scene  of  extreme  sadness 
— had  only  the  customary  formula  to  offer,  and  then  she 
withdrew  from  the  little  circle  and  went  toward  the 
child's  bed.  As  Julia  reached  the  foot  of  the  bed  and 
saw  the  child,  she  started  back.  She  laid  hold  on  the 
gold  knob  of  the  bed  for  support.  After  a  time  she  recov- 
ered herself  and  stood  looking  at  the  child,  her  face  and 
entire  being  bespeaking  interest  and  admiration. 

Julia  knew  this  child  to  be  the  same  little  one  whom 
she  had  seen  in  the  Grus  music  store — the  same  little 
child  whose  beautiful  speaking  eyes  had  chased  away 
all  thought  of  her  study  during  the  past  hour. 

How  she  longed  for  a  sight  of  them  now!  In  her 
mind,  even  at  this  moment,  the  same  pathetic,  troubled 
eyes  pleaded  with  her  as  before.  But  she  could  not  see 
his  eyes  now.  They  were  tightly  closed. 

She  riveted  her  gaze,  determined  that  if  he  opened 
his  eyes  he  should  see  her,  and,  too,  that  if  he  opened 
them  for  only  a  short  time  she  might  be  sure  whether 
their  expression  was  the  same  as  that  of  the  eyes  that 
had  haunted  her  in  her  room. 

All  the  radiant  beauty  of  her  being  shone  in  her  face 
and  in  every  fibre  of  her  body,  drawn  to  its  utmost  ten- 
sion at  this  moment,  as  she  bent  slightly  forward  over 
the  foot  of  the  bed  in  an  eager  expectancy  for  the  mo- 
ment to  arrive  when  he  should  lift  those  lids,  when  there 
should  be  an  upward,  graceful  movement  of  those  silken 
lashes,  that  now  lay  quite  still,  without  betraying  so  much 
as  the  slightest  twitching  of  a  muscle. 

She  was  benignly  beautiful  and  fitted  by  nature  and 
training  to  be  worshiped  as  a  goddess  of  the  Good — of 
the  True — of  the  Beautiful. 

219 


AN   AMERICAN    SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

The  nurse,  who  was  telling  her  beads,  paused  in  her 
petition  and  told  herself  that  she  had  been  fortunate 
indeed  to  have  recalled  that  the  young  English  officer, 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  a  short  time  before,  was 
the  same  officer  who,  near  the  Grus  music  store,  had 
parted  company  from  this  young  woman  with  yellow 
hair  and  large,  kind,  blue  eyes.  Indeed,  she  told  herself 
it  must  have  been  by  the  aid  of  her  prayers  that  she 
had  thought  of  this  young  woman.  The  pious  old  nurse, 
when  Adino  had  called  for  "that  angel,"  had  thought 
he  must  be  dying,  and  was  having  a  glimpse  of  the 
angels  about  whom  she  had  taught  him.  Indeed,  so  care- 
fully had  she  taught  him  as  to  the  attendance  of  angels, 
as  she  looked  upon  their  mission,  that  he  felt  himself 
at  all  times  under  the  guardianship  of  two  angels  by 
day,  and  under  the  protection  of  an  extra  force  of  four 
others,  who  guarded  the  four  corners  of  his  bed  all 
through  the  silent  watches  of  the  night.  In  strange  con- 
trast, truly,  was  this  imaginary  angelic  host  attendant 
upon  the  child,  to  the  evil-inspiring  host  of  appalling 
blackness,  which  surrounded  the  daily  and  nightly  path- 
way of  the  mother  of  little  Adino. 

Now  the  nurse  understood — she  thought  she  did — 
what  Adino  had  meant  on  last  evening  when  he  had  sat 
looking  into  the  flames,  as  they  danced  and  leaped  up  the 
fireplace  of  the  great  chimney  while  she  arranged  for 
their  evening  meal.  He  and  nurse  had  eaten  together 
since  he  had  been  able  to  take  his  seat  at  the  table,  for 
mama  was  very  particular  that  everything  pertaining  to 
table  service  should  be  dainty,  elegant,  sumptuous,  stiffly 
dignified.  When  Adino  was  grown  he  might  be  seated 
at  the  table,  but  not  before. 

As  Adino  had  watched  the  fantastic  figures  formed 
by  the  leaping  flames,  now  high,  now  low,  now  sinuous, 
now  laughing,  catching  each  other  in  loving  embrace,  his 

220 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

large,  earnest  eyes  had  turned  toward  the  nurse,  and 
he  had  asked:  "Suzanne,  when  I  die  will  all  these  black 
curls  fall  out,  and  shall  I  have  new  hair — golden  hair?" 

The  nurse  had  laughed  and  answered:  "Ah!  no,  dear 
Adino ;  there  are  more  angels  with  dark  hair — real  black 
hair — than  there  are  with  yellow  hair." 

Evidently  he  had  not  been  satisfied  with  this  answer, 
for  he  had  continued:  "In  all  my  picture  books  every 
angel  has  golden  hair  and  blue  eyes.  I  never  saw  an 
angel  with  black  hair — black  hair  like  mine.  They  all 
have  hair  and  eyes  like  that  lady  I  saw  at  the  music  store, 
when  I  got  that  violin  string." 

This  he  had  said  while  his  gazelle  eyes  had  lingered 
in  a  gentle,  yet  very  inquiring,  survey  of  nurse's  face, 
until  she  had  answered :  "Ah !  Adinino,  there  are  beau- 
tiful angels  with  hair  and  eyes  just  exactly  like  yours." 

Presently  the  eyes  of  Adino  opened,  slowly  at  first, 
then  suddenly  to  a  wide-open  stare,  as  if  he  realized  that 
the  vision  of  his  delirium  stood  before  him.  Julia  had 
changed  her  attitude  of  strained  expectancy  to  one  of 
tenderest  compassion,  and  stood  smiling  upon  him,  just 
as  she  had  done  when  he  had  entered  the  music  store. 
The  eyes  of  Adino  rested  upon  Julia  and  he  made  sev- 
eral attempts  to  speak.  At  last  he  succeeded,  and  called 
out  in  a  very  weak  voice :  "Mama.'' 

Madame  Nitolsk  was  at  his  side  in  a  moment,  crying: 
"Oh !  my  baby !  my  darling !  what  is  it  ?  Here  is  mama ! 
Speak  to  me!  What  is  it,  Adino?" 

"Mama  —  there  —  is  —  th — at  —  angel." 

His  beautiful  eyes  were  fixedly  staring  at  Julia,  the 
light  in  their  velvety  depths  dimmed  and  altogether  very 
unnatural.  Soon  they  were  closed  again  and  he  lay  quite 
like  a  creature  into  which  the  breath  of  life  had  not  yet 
come,  or  out  of  which  the  spirit  had  just  fled.  He  had 

221 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

lapsed  into  the  same  comatose  condition,  and  the  chem- 
ist began  to  look  more  serious  than  he  had  yet  done. 

"Is  he  not  better?"  asked  Lady  Trent. 

"No,  I  think  he  is  dying,"  replied  the  chemist. 

Madame  Nitolsk  sobbed  convulsively,  and  Lady 
Trent  led  her  away  from  the  bedside.  All  the  servants 
present  joined  in  a  general  weeping.  The  nurse,  who 
had  heard  the  chemist  say  Adino  was  dying,  slipped  out, 
but  soon  returned  with  a  very  devout-looking  priest, 
whom  she  guided  up  to  the  bed  and  begged  him  "to  pre- 
pare Adino  for  death." 

The  priest  passed  along  after  the  nurse,  amidst  the 
genuflexions  of  the  servants  upon  every  side. 

Again  Adino  half  opened  his  eyes  and  called: 
"Mama !" 

Madame  Nitolsk  hastily  came  to  the  bedside  and  bent 
over  him,  saying:  "Here  is  mama." 

"Mama,  don't  angels  sing?"  asked  Adino,  while  his 
eyes  rested  calmly  upon  Julia,  who  still  stood  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed. 

"Julia,"  said  Lady  Trent,  "I  believe  it  would  please 
him  to  hear  you  sing." 

Though  Lady  Trent  had  spoken  in  low,  quiet  tones, 
they  were  yet  audible  enough  for  Madame  Nitolsk  to 
hear  the  remark  made  to  Julia. 

"Oh !  Miss  Pembroke,  I  beg  of  you,  do  sing  some- 
thing— anything  you  may  select,"  entreated  Madame 
Nitolsk. 

Julia,  willing  to  do  so,  wisely  asked  the  chemist :  "Are 
you  quite  sure,  Monsieur,  that  it  would  have  no  undesira- 
ble effect  upon  little  Adino?" 

"Ah!  no,  Mademoiselle;  the  contrary  would  be  the 
effect,  I  assure  you." 

Julia,  not  at  all  acquainted  with  the  religion  of  Mad- 
ame Nitolsk,  scarcely  knew  what  song  to  sing.  But  see- 

222 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

ing  a  priest,  supposed  Madame  Nitolsk  of  the  Catholic 
faith.  And  as  for  Adino,  she  would  try  to  please  and 
satisfy  his  taste  by  means  of  her  voice  alone. 

Julia,  though  a  Protestant,  was  a  child  of  God,  and 
believed  that  all  who  trusted  God  were  children  and 
heirs  to  the  future  He  had  planned  for  the  immortal 
part  of  their  natures.  She  had  learned  the  "Ave  Maria" 
to  please  her  teacher,  who  had  wished  to  hear  it  sung 
by  her  voice  and  for  art's  sake  alone.  She  now  recalled 
what  Maestro  Novara  had  said  when  she  had  finished 
singing — "The  angels  in  heaven  knelt  while  you  sang." 

"Yes,"  thought  Julia ;  "I  will  sing  this." 

So  she  took  a  long  breath  and  began — "Ave  Maria." 
The  long-held  notes  sighed  themselves  out  upon  the 
silence  of  the  room.  And  the  echo  of  the  first  met  the 
breath  of  the  second.  But  there  was  no  discord;  there 
was  only  a  soft  vibration,  as  of  distant  chimes  heard 
in  the  memory  as  they  mingled  and  hovered  one  moment, 
until  the  breath  had  become  an  echo,  and  they  died  away 
and  fell  together  into  the  still  ether  around. 

The  divine  voice  went  on,  and  there  was  so  much 
sound  that  it  perforated  the  sunlight,  and  all  the  air  quiv- 
ered. The  golden  purity  of  the  notes  caught  the  color 
of  the  sunlit  air  and  reflected  the  lights  of  human  life 
into  the  clear  water  of  the  sound. 

And  the  notes  divided,  for  the  high  ones,  entering 
the  sunlight,  seemed  to  take  life  and  were  created  a  soul, 
and  went  outward  and  upward  and  vanished  into  the 
great  above,  while  the  low  notes  lingered  below,  to 
whisper  consolation,  until  the  high  notes  should  return 
from  heaven  with  the  granted  appeal. 

The  light  coming  in  through  the  window  at  this  hour 
of  the  afternoon  was  strong  enough  to  make  the  face  of 
Julia  very  distinct  to  Adino.  He  kept  his  eyes  steadily, 
though  not  at  all  fixedly,  resting  upon  her  face.  A  smile 

223 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

played  around  the  delicately  molded  mouth,  and  a  peace- 
ful expression,  cast  as  it  were  by  the  reflex  of  an  unseen 
halo,  encircled  the  small,  pale  face.  The  eyes,  though 
natural  and  showing  not  the  slightest  influence  of  the 
smiling  mouth,  shown  with  a  beauty  of  expression  by 
which  Julia  knew  that  the  little  soul  quivered  with  the 
real  import  of  the  touching  appeal  of  Gounod's  "Ave 
Maria." 

Madame  Nitolsk  forgot  to  weep  in  listening  to  the 
tones  which  carried  the  spirit  of  adoration  to  the  highest 
of  that  emotion  as  known  to  mankind. 

And  as  the  prayer  passed  on,  through  vocalization 
by  Julia,  when  the  sinner  beseeches  the  Holy  Mother  to 
petition  at  the  throne  of  Mercy  for  the  redemption  of 
his  soul,  Madame  Nitolsk,  under  the  spell  of  the  mag- 
netic power  of  the  prayer  or  its  musical  expression,  or 
both,  bowed  her  head  upon  the  bed  of  her  child  and 
shook  convulsively. 

Lady  Trent  stood  beside  the  kneeling  mother,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  a  singing  voice  made  the 
tears  follow  in  quick  succession  down  her  cheeks. 

Lieutenant  Trent,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  a 
little  to  the  left  of  Julia,  bowed  his  head  and  crossed 
his  hands  upon  the  hilt  of  his  sword.  Such  singing  he 
had  often  read  of,  but  never  before  had  he  heard. 

The  chemist  was  a  shrewd,  keen,  heartless  man,  and, 
though  he  wondered  at  the  marvelous  voice,  he  did 
not  forget  the  faint  throb  under  the  press  of  his  taper- 
ing fingers.  Upon  his  ghoulish  face  was  registered  a 
strange  appeal,  for  he  was  anxious  to  save  Adino,  and 
he  knew  that  the  pulse  had  grown  more  regular  than 
it  had  been  before.  The  priest,  who  had  been  standing 
beside  the  chemist  when  the  song  began,  listened,  and 
as  the  song  moved  on  in  heart-rending  pleadings  for 
mercy,  the  priest  and  the  servants,  as  one  person,  fell 

224 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

upon  their  knees,  and,  clasping  their  hands  devotionally 
upon  their  breasts,  with  faces  upturned  to  the  Divinity 
before  Whose  shrine  they  knelt,  they  sent  up  the  sin- 
cere desire  of  their  hearts,  as  expressed  in  the  words, 
and  as  expressed  by  the  divine  music  of  Gounod,  and  as 
expressed  in  the  soulful  tones  of  the  human  voice,  which 
carried  the  spirit  held  in  the  body  out — far  out — of  its 
earthly  domain,  where  what  is  God  awaits  the  coming 
of  what  is  God  in  each  mortal  upon  earth.  In  other 
words,  where  the  immortal  part  of  ourselves  will  clasp 
hands  with  the  immortal  part  of  loved  ones  gone  before, 
and  where  God  will  again  apportion  to  each  the  mission 
of  each  there,  in  accordance  with  the  respective  merits 
carried  from  earth — Heaven. 

And  when  the  last  sighed  "Ave"  floated  out  and 
ceased  to  echo,  a  deathlike  stillness  pervaded  the  room, 
save  for  the  convulsive  movements  of  Madame  Nitolsk. 
What  was  going  on  within  this  woman?  No  one  knew 
— yes,  some  one  did — for  God  knew. 

Julia  did  not  move  from  her  position,  but  stood 
smiling  sweetly  at  Adino,  who  smiled  back  at  her.  It 
was  the  smile  in  which  the  eyes  joined  and  echoed  back 
the  call  to  life  and  health.  Then  there  was  a  stir — a 
restless  movement  of  Adino,  and  the  entire  small  body 
heaved  violently. 

It  was  the  chemist  who  broke  the  intense,  the  pall- 
like  spell.  "He  will  not  die;  the  crisis  is  passed.  He 
will  live." 

Half  an  hour  later  Madame  Nitolsk,  Lady  Trent  and 
Lieutenant  Trent  stood  at  the  head  of  the  steps,  bidding 
Julia  good-bye.  At  this  juncture  of  affairs  the  brave 
heart  of  Lieutenant  Trent  was  not  his  own.  It  had  gone 
out  to  the  fair  American  singer,  who  some  minutes  be- 

225 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

fore  had  given  them  all  a  glimpse  of  heaven  through 
the  medium  of  the  divine  in  Gounod. 

As  there  had  been  nothing  more  which  Julia  might 
have  been  able  to  do  for  Adino,  and  as  the  chemist  had 
said  that  he  must  be  very  quiet,  she  had  decided  to  leave 
now,,  for  it  was  nearing  the  hour  when  she  should  be 
with  the  maestro. 

Lady  Trent  had  said:  "Julia,  mv  landau  is  at  the 
door.  Be  sure  you  take  it^  for  the  air  is  somewhat  chill, 
especially  for  you.  Guard  that  jewel  in  your  throat,  and 
do  not  take  cold." 

Julia  had  thanked  her  warmly,  and,  with  Lieutenant 
Trent,  who  had  insisted  upon  seeing  her  off,  had  gone 
down  the  marble  staircase,  and  the  crystal  doors  of 
the  vestibule  had  closed  behind  them.  But  when  they 
had  stepped  outside  the  street  doors  they  found  no  auto- 
mobile there. 

Julia  was  greatly  surprised,  and  so  was  the  young 
Lieutenant.  Now  this  surprise  on  the  part  of  the  young 
English  officer  was  affected. 

Reginald  Trent  had  known  all  the  time  that  the  auto- 
mobile was  not  at  the  door,  for  when  his  mother  and 
Julia  had  entered,  he  had  sent  it  away,  with  orders  to 
return  when  'phoned  for.  He  had  hoped  by  this  little 
delay,  and  trusting  to  the  desertedness  of  the  down- 
stairs during  such  a  time  as  had  just  passed,  to  be  able 
at  least  to  say  a  few  words  of  great  import  to  himself; 
for  Lieutenant  Trent  was  not  an  eloquent  man,  and, 
more,  too,  he  had  never  tried  to  weave  such  sentences. 

"Go  'phone  for  my  automobile,"  said  Trent  to  the 
butler,  giving  him  the  number. 

"Yes,  my  lord,  I  shall  do  so;  but  sometimes  it  re- 
quires patience,  for  it  is  often  difficult  to  get  a  mes- 
sage." 

226 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

Then  he  looked  at  Julia,  who  had  crossed  the  vesti- 
bule and  had  entered  the  reception  hall.  The  butler, 
like  most  persons,  worshiped  a  gifted  singer,  and  felt 
that  this  young  American  was  a  personage — one  far 
removed  from  the  ordinary  walks  of  life.  And  though 
he  hurried  up  the  marble  steps  on  his  way  to  the  'phone, 
he  turned  and  cast  a  lingering  look  upon  the  young 
woman  who  had  filled  the  house  with  music,  and  by 
the  sweetest  voice  he  had  ever  heard.  He  looked  upon 
Julia  as  one  would  expect  a  believer  of  household  gods 
to  look  upon  his  penates. 

Julia  went  into  the  reception  hall,  for  there  were  no 
seats  in  the  vestibule,  and  there  were  chairs  in  the 
reception  hall,  and,  besides,  Julia  had  been  standing  for 
so  long  that  she  was  really  tired. 

They  sat  down,  Julia  in  a  large  easy-chair  and  Trent 
in  a  very  severely  straight  one,  which  was  fashioned 
without  a  back,  excepting  for  a  bit  of  a  gold  frame  which 
stood  some  ten  inches  above  the  cushioned  seat.  A  soldier 
like  Trent  finds  it  most,  agreeable  to  receive  as  little 
support  as-  possible  when  in  the  full  dress  of  his  rank. 
A  soldier  brave  is  a  soldier  strong  at  all  times,  whether 
sitting,  standing,  walking  or  fighting,  and  needs  no  sup- 
port from  any  person,  place,  time  or  thing. 

Trent  looked  at  Julia,  and  for  a  time  there  was  a 
silence. 

Julia  was  truly  fatigued,  but  beyond  a  slight  relaxa- 
tion of  the  severe  tension  to  which  her  nerves  had  been 
strained,  she  was  in  her  usual  health  and  spirits. 

Trent  thought  her  the  most  captivating  woman  he 
had  ever  known,  and  he  knew  he  loved  her.  And  he 
felt  impelled  to  do  just  what  any  young  man  under 
such  circumstances  would  do — tell  her  so.  He  would 
be  brave,  he  would.  But  brave  as  he  was  upon  the  field 
of  battle,  and  fearless  as  he  was  of  all  dangers  and  ills 

227 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

which  befell  him  in  the  ordinary  or  in  the  extraordinary 
walks  of  life,  he  now  felt  himself  almost  powerless  to 
tell  this  gentlewoman  of  his  love  for  her,  and  to  offer 
her  his  name,  his  home,  his  life — himself,  and  to  beg 
of  her  in  return  the  right  to  see  her  seated  in  his  home, 
the  queen  of  his  home,  his  heart,  his  fortunes,  through 
life  and  eternity.  Oh!  how  he  loved  her! 

Why  was  it  so  difficult  to  speak  when  the  heart  was 
so  full — full  to  overflowing — full  with  the  subject  mat- 
ter— and  he  knew  perfectly  all  that  he  wished  to  say? 
But  it  was  not  only  difficult  to  say — it  verged  on  the 
impossible  to  say. 

Julia,  who  since  seating  herself  had  been  silent,  too, 
now  turned  her  eyes  upon  Trent  and  said:  "I  noticed 
a  strange  crest  upon  the  sash  of  the  butler.  Do  you 
know  what  it  is?" 

"No,  I  do  not." 

Then,  moving  his  chair  close  enough  to  Julia  to 
take  both  of  her  hands  in  his,  he  said:  "Miss  Pem- 
broke, this  may  be  a  surprise  to  you,  but  I  am  a  blunt 
soldier,  used  to  war's  alarms,  and  hardly  capable  of 
gentle  wooing.  But  I  love  you  with  all  the  strength  of 
my  nature.  I  have  never  before  loved  any  woman  as  I 
now  love  you,  and  I  feel  I  can  not  think  of  life  without 
you.  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  believe  me,  I  love  you." 
And  bending  over  the  small  white  hands  he  fondly  held 
in  his,  he  pressed  them  to  his  lips  and  lingered  for  a 
moment,  as  if  reverently  accentuating  a  fervent  appeal. 

"True,"  he  continued,  "I  have  only  a  soldier's  heart 
and  hearth  to  offer,  but  all  that  I  have  is  yours;  and 
I  shall  love  you  than  which  no  man  ever  loved  woman 
better." 

Julia  offered  no  resistance  to  his  manner  of  action, 
nor  opposition  to  his  sentiments  as  expressed  in  this 
declaration  of  his  ardent  love. 

228 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

On  Christmas  eve  Alverstone  went  out  trom  the 
Grand  Hotel  upon  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines.  See- 
ing him  pause  a  moment,  one  of  the  many  cabmen  wait- 
ing near  by  came  up  and  asked  him  to  take  a  cab,  but 
he  was  absorbed  in  his  own  way;  he  was  only  thinking 
which  of  the  two  directions  he  should  follow.  He  finally 
started  down  the  thoroughfare,  pursuing  his  way  slowly 
and  in  a  very  hesitating  manner  until  he  came  to  the 
Opera.  It  was  ten-thirty.  "Tannhauser"  was  cul- 
tivating the  very  large  number  of  those  who  gathered 
to  hear  it  sung. 

Alverstone  stood  lost  in  a  sort  of  revery,  while  a 
feeling  of  something  akin  to  sadness  came  over  the  spirit 
of  his  dream.  He  looked  up  at  the  magnificent  gray 
structure  standing  so  firmly,  yet  stately  and  grandly; 
proudly  triumphant  in  the  glory  she  had  wrought  for 
the  art  of  song.  That  magnificent  creature  that  reigns 
with  and  yet  above  the  surrounding  blocklike  buildings, 
that  huddle  themselves  together,  and  look  like  dumb, 
wondrous  slaves  at  their  superb,  gray  chiseled  queen, 
who  has  for  her  crown  a  golden  lyre  and  for  a  throne 
the  juncture  of  an  old  but  modern  city's  great  ways. 

After  standing  for  some  time  at  the  corner  of  Boule- 
vard des  Capucines,  gazing  up  at  the  Opera,  contem- 
plating future  scenes  within  its  walls — scenes  in  which 
Julia  would  be  the  principal,  unless — unless — dare  he 
think  it?  Yes,  he  dare,  for  he  had  determined  to  try 
to  win  her  for  his  fireside  queen.  She  should  not  be  an 
opera  singer,  that  she  should  not.  He  thought  he  knew 
the  gentlewoman  well  enough  to  know  that  if  Miss  Pem- 

229 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

broke  had  meant  to  oppose  his  suit,  her  manner  on  the 
evening  at  the  Trents'  would  have  been  less  pleasant; 
and  the  sympathy  shown  him  afterwards,  especially  as 
they  went  down  the  broad  staircase,  on  out  to  where 
he  had  carefully  assisted  her  into  Madame  Cinati's  car- 
riage, was  certainly  possessed  of  a  degree  of  warmth 
quite  soothing  to  a  lover,  who  had  sought  and  had  not 
found  the  jewel  of  his  desires.  He  should  cherish  as 
long  as  he  lived  the  picture  of  her  sweet  face  on  that 
memorable  first  night  at  the  Opera.  In  there  he  had 
seen  her  smile  upon  him,  he  had  sat  beside  her  and  had 
felt  that  she  loved  him ;  at  least  that  she  was  glad  that  he 
was  near,  and  more  than  glad  that  he  had  been  pleased 
to  give  her  especial  attention.  In  the  time  of  their  ac- 
quaintance, which  was  short,  but  of  higher  import  than 
a  longer  one  less  happy,  he  was  sure  that  not  once  had 
she  shown  the  least  impatience  with  the  attentions  of 
which  she  had  been  the  object,  and  with  which  attentions 
he  knew  that  he  had  been  importunate,  almost  to  a  de- 
gree of  indelicacy.  How  could  he  help  it,  though?  She 
was  possessed  of  a  womanhood  he  had  held  as  his  ideal, 
and  which,  until  one  week  ago  yesterday  afternoon,  he 
had  not  supposed  existed  in  mortal  flesh ;  for  had  he  not 
known  intimately  and  well  many  young  ladies,  and  had 
not  all  proven  lacking  in  the  sincerity  of  womanly  traits 
of  character  which  he  considered  indispensable? 

He  had  told  himself  that  this  lack  of  womanly  char- 
acteristic in  so  many  young  women  was  the  sole  reason 
for  so  many  young  men  failing  to  find  their  ideal  woman. 

What  if  she  should  always  refuse  him!  He  would 
leave  Paris — travel  the  world  over.  Then  he  might  for- 
get these  days,  but  if  he  did  all  this,  Julia  Pembroke 
would  haunt  his  mind  still;  for,  strange  to  say,  during 
the  past  ten  days  a  network  had  formed  about  his  heart, 
and  it  was  made  of  strong  cords,  for  they  had  been 

230 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

woven  at  the  loom  of  True  Love.  And  this  network 
was  so  ingeniously  stretched  that  its  art-pattern  always 
spelled  "Julia."  He  was  bound  body  and  soul — for  this 
was  his  first,  his  only  love,  and  he  was  worshipful  in 
this  love.  His  body  might  leave  Paris,  but  his  soul 
would  not. 

What  was  the  matter?  The  world  seemed  so  differ- 
ent. Had  he  become  a  cynic  ?  What  made  him  so  sad — • 
so  morbid?  He  knew  why,  but  he  did  not  want  to 
admit  that  he  was  so  weak.  He  evaded  the  answer, 
but  everything  he  saw  or  looked  at  made  him  understand 
why — exactly  why.  He  told  himself  he  was  growing 
melancholy,  but  he  should  not  be  so.  Did  not  Julia 
smile  at  him  ?  Then  Julia  was  not  engaged ;  if  she  were, 
she  would  not  have  smiled. 

A  man,  lean  and  fleet-footed  as  a  deer,  ran  toward 
him.  He  was  crying,  "Le  Figaro,"  "La  Patrie." 

Alverstone  hailed  him — gave  him  one  franc  for  a 
paper.  The  man  reached  in  his  pocket  for  change,  but 
Alverstone  objected  with,  "No,  no;  keep  it." 

The  man  grinned,  pocketed  the  silver  coin,  and,  lift- 
ing his  cap,  thanked  his  benefactor. 

There  is  chivalry  sometimes  even  in  a  gamin. 

Alverstone  passed  the  Olympia.  Some  few  strag- 
glers, evidently  street  ticket  vendors,  loitered  before  the 
light-swept  entrance,  but  he  did  not  even  look  in,  for 
he  never  went  into  music  halls. 

A  little  farther  on  a  column  attracted  his  attention. 
"Manon"  at  the  Opera  Comique — he  went  over  and  read 
it,  but  he  had  been  mistaken.  "Manon"  was  to  be  given 
the  Monday  following;  to-night  "Carmen" — the  very 
name  was  repulsive  to  him — it  recalled  Madame  Nitolsk. 
No,  he  would  not  go — "Tannhauser"  at  the  Opera  and 
"Le  Reveil"  at  the  Theatre  Francais. 

231 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

Abominable !  How  many  times  these  plays  loom  up 
on  the  placards ! 

There  were  two  small  gamins,  curled  up,  sleeping, 
before  they  would  have  to  begin  their  midnight  walk; 
for  all  such  know  that  to  be  found  standing  after  the 
hour  of  midnight  means  arrest  by  the  police,  a  fact  that 
often  proves  disagreeable  to  the  stranger  in  Paris,  for 
this  newcomer,  even  though  an  honest,  law-abiding  per- 
son, is  not  exempt  from  arrest  if  found  standing  after 
twelve  of  the  night. 

The  street  was  icy,  and  horses  every  now  and  then 
slipped  and  fell;  some,  no  doubt,  glad  to  take  advantage, 
of  the  moment's  rest  while  the  distracted  driver  disen- 
tangled the  miserable  beast. 

Though  great  boulevards  and  avenues  never  sleep, 
they  take  naps  every  now  and  then,  and  the  Boulevard 
des  Capucines,  when  Alverstone  finished  looking  at  the 
column  of  amusements,  had  just  rubbed  its  eyes  and  was 
awaking  from  one  of  those  naps.  All  of  a  sudden,  as  if 
a  world  had  been  created  by  magic,  the  great  boulevard 
began  to  stir.  Some  people  were  going  to  and  from  the 
cafes,  others  of  the  fashionable  world  were  going  to  the 
Opera.  Of  course,  they  rode  in  their  cabs,  and  had  obvi- 
ously been  at  Madame  de  Somebody's  reception  or 
Christmas  ball,  and  only  went  to  the  Opera  because  they 
knew  that  from  the  position  they  occupied  in  their  boxes 
they  could  be  seen  and  admired ;  for  they  were  skillfully 
made  up,  both  men  and  women,  and  the  fair  ones  had 
very  magnificent  costumes. 

There  were  many  creatures  who  wore  the  small  cap 
with  the  peak.  They  wedged  their  way  through  the 
crowd  when  there  was  plenty  of  room  on  either  side,  or 
they  lingered  in  the  shadow  of  some  small  paper  stand 
which  was  closed.  These  were  the  pickpockets  and  the 

232 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

Apaches  of  the  city  of  Paris,  that  are  never  to  be  seen 
w.hen  a  policeman  is  in  sight. 

And,  too,  there  were  many  gaily-dressed  women,  ac- 
companied by  handsome  men,  and  these  promenaded 
the  wide  sidewalk  of  the  boulevard..  And  some  of  the 
fair  creatures,  who  were  obviously  bored  with  their  com- 
panions, eyed  Alverstone  coquettishly,  for  he  was  a  very 
distinguished  and  handsome  young  man.  There  were 
other  people,  evidently  going  early  to  Mass — pious  peo- 
ple, who  believed  that  only  by  such  rigorous  devotion 
they  might  escape  the  everlasting  flames. 

Though  both  sides  of  the  street  were  well  filled  with 
passers-by,  the  north  side  was  more  crowded,  for  there 
was  a  profusion  of  light  on  that  side,  and  the  other  side 
was  dull  and  uninteresting  in  comparison,  and  people 
are  human  millers,  and  bright  light  attracts  them  if  they 
are  healthy  or  gay. 

But  this  great  boulevard  looked  like  many  other 
great  avenues  and  boulevards  look  at  certain  parts  of 
hours,  and,  like  the  rest  of  its  kind,  the  Boulevard  des 
Capucines  at  some  forty-five  minutes  past  ten  o'clock  the 
night  before  Christmas,  was  a  great  street,  where  fash- 
ion promenaded  and  rags  sauntered. 

Alverstone  walked  on — the  crowd  was  very  thick — 
every  one  seemed  to  notice  him — life  had  ceased  to  please 
him — solitude  was  what  he  craved — he  did  not  want  to 
distract  his  mind — he  wanted  to  hear  his  thoughts — he 
wanted  to  answer  the  odd  queries  his  brain  might  put 
to  him. 

He  was  going  to  the  Madeleine,  but  it  was  not  yet 
time;  he  had  a  full  hour  and  a  half  yet.  He  would  go 
to  Prunier,  the  great  Parisian  restaurant,  where  the  fin- 
est oysters  in  the  world  are  served.  This  restaurant  was 
on  Rue  Duphot;  he  would  go  there  directly  by  quitting 
the  boulevard.  So  he  crossed  the  street  and  turned  down 

233 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

i 
one  of  those  small  streets  which  go  off  great  boulevards. 

Nothing  was  stirring.  The  small  shops  were  closed 
and  barred  for  the  night.  The  street  was  as  silent  as  a 
catacomb.  How  different  some  streets  can  be,  with  no 
apparent  wall  or  separation — a  poor  quarter  adjoins  a 
rich  quarter — a  silent  a  noisy  one.  Paris  is  without 
visible  walls  through  the  city,  though  there  are  walls 
formed  by  neighborhood  conditions.  It  is  modern,  but 
clings  to  some  things  medieval. 

Alverstone  walked  quickly.  He  was  glad  to  be  alone. 
Near  a  corner  where  a  rather  wide  street  intersects  a 
small  one  he  heard  voices  speaking  hurriedly.  He  was 
not  a  sensitive  or  guilty  man,  so  he  walked  on  and  did 
not  alter  his  pace  as  he  approached  the  spot  where  the 
speakers  were  half  concealed.  When  he  had  almost 
come  upon  them  he  heard  a  man's  voice  say,  "As  strong 
as  possible,"  and  he  saw  the  outline  of  two  figures  as 
they  left  their  place  of  concealment  and  parted.  One 
was  a  lean,  bending  figure,  which  carried  carefully  a 
long  pasteboard  box  under  the  arm,  and  scudded  away 
like  a  spider  with  a  newly  caught  fly — proudly  and 
stealthily.  The  companion  glided  away  like  a  serpent. 
Whether  man  or  woman,  it  was  hard  to  determine  from 
the  long  cloak — a  half  mantilla — which  wrapped  the  en- 
tire form;  yet  when  judged  from  height,  might  be  that 
of  a  man;  yet,  judged  from  the  rapid  glide,  might  be 
that  of  a  woman. 

The  shaggy  ponderous  creature  hailed  a  cab  and  was 
out  of  sight  around*  a  corner,  while  the  very  tall,  bending 
one  went  in  an  opposite  direction. 

Very  odd,  very  odd,  thought  Alverstone,  but  he  did 
not  hasten  his  pace,  though  as  he  crossed  the  wide  inter- 
secting street  he  heard  a  noise  and  a  sharp  click.  No 
doubt  the  tall,  bending  figure  had  gone  in  somewhere 
down  the  rather  wide  street,  and  the  noise  was  the  shut- 

234 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

ting  of  a  door,  and  the  click  the  turning  of  a  key  in  its 
lock. 

Paris  is  a  great  city,  and  while  certain  people  may 
be  noticeably  interested  in  certain  others,  the  world  at 
large  does  not  spy. 

Paris  has  many  peoples,  and  who  can  say  who  they 
are — where  they  come  from  or  what  they  are  doing? 
Each  one  is  living  his  own  life — the  life  of  a  great 
city. 

A  badaud  may  seem  overinterested  in  two  pretty  feet, 
or  a  twisted  cravat.  A  gamin  or  a  grown  up  one  may 
haunt  a  certain  street  because  some  one  there  has  a  sym- 
pathetic heart.  A  demonstrative  youth  may  play  or 
sing  out  his  heart  beneath  a  dark  window  that  is  never 
opened  at  day,  never  lit  by  night. 

There  are  trees  on  which  blossoms  bloom,  then  blow 
away — such  flowers  are  these — the  badaud — the  gamin 
and  the  grown-up  one,  and  the  sighing  youth;  but 
there  are  also  leaves  on  all  trees,  and  these  leaves  are 
the  other  people — its  majority — the  people  who  live  on 
Paris,  by  Paris  and  for  Paris. 

The  door  which  Alverstone  had  heard  close  was  that 
of  a  pharmacy.  The  key  that  had  turned  was  the  big 
night  key;  the  tall,  bending  figure,  that  of  a  chemist. 

Alverstone  had  surmised  aright  when  he  conjectured 
that  the  tall,  bending  figure  with  the  long  pasteboard  box 
had  closed  a  door  and  turned  a  key  in  its  lock. 

As  the  apothecary  shut  the  door  and  turned  around 
the  low  burning  lights  of  the  shop  fell  upon  his  face. 
Even  though  the  high  forehead  was  powerfully  intel- 
lectual, there  was  something  disagreeable  in  its  narrow- 
ness. It  was  the  forehead  of  a  willful  man;  a  man  that 
stoops  to  anything;  that  blindfolds  innocence,  that  forces 
reluctancy,  that  cajoles  frivolity,  that  makes  partner  of 

235 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

evil.  He  was  a  dangerous  man!  The  prominent  tem- 
ples and  the  slanting  forehead  told  that.  He  was  a  cun- 
ning, crafty  man;  the  contraction  of  the  eyes,  the  placid 
brow  and  the  set  of  the  mouth  marked  that.  It  was  a 
hideous  visage — the  narrow  half  square  jaw,  the  painful 
stretch  of  the  sallow  skin,  from  the  high  cheek  bones 
to  the  chin;  the  small,  distorted,  almond-shaped  eyes, 
which  glittered  menacingly  with  their  seemingly  pointed 
irises;  eyebrows  which  grew  up  instead  of  down  at  their 
outer  ends. 'His  long,  almost  emaciated  hands  were  well 
kept,  but  too  tapering  at  the  fingers,  and  they  clutched 
like  locks  around  the  long  pasteboard  box  which  he  held 
under  his  arm. 

"Still  here?   I  have  something  for  you  to  do." 

The  voice  was  low,  insinuating,  though  decided.  Tt 
was  the  Greco-Morisco-Egyptian — Jean  Baptiste  Alia 
Dekkah,  chemist  and  general  pharmacist,  on  a  rather 
wide  street  in  the  city  of  Paris,  who  spoke. 

The  young  man  addressed  did  not  look  up  from  his 
work,  but  went  on  diligently  pasting  labels  on  dark 
brown  bottles.  He  had  reached  about  the  middle  of  his 
twenties,  and  must  have  been  of  about  medium  height, 
though  that  could  not  be  judged,  for  he  was  sitting. 
He  had  black  hair,  blue  eyes  and  a  very  small  mouth. 
The  dingy  light  from  an  oil  lamp,  which  had  an  irregu- 
lar wick,  shone  full  in  his  face.  It  was  a  free  counte- 
nance, but  there  was  a  fearful,  hunted  look  in  the  blue 
of  the  eye,  and  a  helpless  anxiety  in  the  relaxed,  quick 
movement  of  the  hands.  He  was  the  clerk  of  Alia  Dek- 
kah. His  name  was  Pierre  Agneau,  and  his  mother  was 
the  concierge  of  the  building  on  the  Rue  la  Perouse, 
where  the  young  American  singer,  Julia  Pembroke,  lived. 

The  clerk  said  nothing,  and  the  chemist  went  on, 
while  he  slowly  opened  the  long  pasteboard  box  and 
carefully  lifted  the  heads  of  many  large  deep  red  roses. 

236 


AN   AMERICAN    SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

"There  are  one  dozen  American  Beauty  roses — very 
beautiful — very,"  he  added,  half  to  himself,  while  he 
darted  a  side  look  at  the  clerk,  who  had  left  his  high 
stool  and  was  now  watching  the  pharmacist  as  he  lifted 
the  roses  out  and  laid  them  in  a  row  on  the  broad  counter. 
There  was  no  delicacy,  no  art,  about  this  man.  And  as 
he  continued  to  scrutinize  the  face  of  the  clerk  there  was 
an  ugly  gloating  gleam  in  the  center  of  the  pointed  irises 
of  the  almond-shaped  eyes. 

Pierre  looked  at  the  roses  with  lingering  eyes.  They 
were  so  beautiful,  so  perfect.  He  loved  the  beautiful, 
and  the  roses  looked  like  living  creatures,  twisted  in  soft, 
caressing  velvet,  spun  on  a  magic  loom  in  Paradise. 
They  had  hearts  that  throbbed  far  down  in  the  center 
of  all  this  outer  loveliness.  They  were  almost  human, 
but  they  never  whispered  a  prayer — this  was  what  Pierre 
thought.  Perhaps,  though,  in  their  beauty  of  form,  of 
color,  of  perfume,  they  do  pray — at  least  these  are  their 
offerings  of  praise  to  God. 

The  chemist  counted  them — one  dozen.  He  held  them 
six  in  each  hand,  saying :  "You  are  the  most  brilliant  and 
most  earnest  clerk  I  have  ever  had.  If  you  continue 
with  me  for  five  years  as  you  have  the  past  two,  I  shall 
make  you  a  joint-partner.  Eh!  does  that  not  please 
you?" 

The  clerk,  who  had  returned  to  his  high  stool,  dili- 
gently continued  his  work.  The  chemist  went  on  exam- 
ining the  roses ;  and,  continuing,  said : 

"Pierre,  this  is  what  I  have  for  you  to  do" — the 
chemist  held  up  the  dozen  roses.  "I  will  give  you  the 
two  hundred  francs — if  you  powder  these  flowers." 

"Ah,  oui,  Monsieur,  with  all  my  heart.  And  I  shall 
have  the  money — the  two  hundred  francs?"  he  added, 
with  a  half  timid,  incredulous  voice,  not  unmixed  with 
awe. 

237 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

"The  two  hundred  francs  in  gold  are  yours  when 
one  dozen  roses  are  powdered.  But  this  must  be  done 
to-night — not  later  than  one  hour  and  a  half.  Morbleu! 
it  is  easy." 

The  mother  of  the  clerk,  Pierre,  had  for  the  past  four 
years  collected,  as  concierge  for  the  building  on  the  Rue 
La  Perouse,  the  rentals  due  and  paid  quarterly  by  its 
lodgers.  The  proprietor  had  been  the  old  Marquis  de 
Vendoire.  At  the  end  of  every  three  months  he  had 
come  himself  to  get  the  rentals  which  the  concierge  had 
collected.  He  was  never  overbearing,  but  dignity  and 
born  station  always  walked  with  him.  One  year  ago  the 
old  Marquis  had  died.  He  had  left  no  ascending  heir 
to  the  vast  estate  of  Vendoire,  on  the  Gironde,  so  the 
old  Marquis  had  chosen  a  guardian,  to  be  appointed 
after  his  death.  The  guardian  was  a  shrewd  man,  an 
ex-banker  and  acting  Exchange  man.  Now,  the  time  as 
collector  of  the  building  of  the  deceased  Marquis  de 
Vendoire  had  changed,  and  the  guardian  never  came 
in  person.  At  the  end  of  every  three  months  an  astute, 
haughty  secretary  demanded  and  pocketed,  without  civil- 
ity, the  collected  sum.  One  year  had  passed,  minus  two 
weeks,  since  the  death  of  the  old  Marquis,  when  the 
secretary  came  on  hjs  trimestrial  call. 

The  unfortunate  concierge  had  told  him  that  she 
had  lost  two  hundred  francs;  she  had  begged  him  to 
believe  her  story,  that  the  missing  sum  must  have  fallen 
on  the  staircase,  and  that  some  stranger  mounting  at  the 
same  time  must  have  seen  the  bank  bills  and  picked  them 
up.  She  had  asked  the  secretary  to  take  five  months 
off  her  pay. 

The  secretary  had  said  nothing.  It  was  to  be  seen 
he  disbelieved  her,  and  he  must  have  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing the  guardian  think  as  he  did,  for  two  days  after 

238 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

his  call  the  concierge  had  received  a  letter,  which  ran 
thus: 


"Monsieur  du  Renarbeaumuseau,  my  secretary,  tells 
me  that  in  your  collections  for  the  three  months  just 
passed  you  have  failed  to  deliver  the  sum  due.  Three 
weeks  are  given  for  the  remittal  of  the  missing  two 
hundred  francs. 

[SIGNED]     "J-  E.  MONTE,  Executor  of  the  Estate  of 
the  Late  Marquis  de  Vendoire." 

When  Alia  Dekkah  offered  Pierre  two  hundred  francs 
if  he  would  powder  the  roses,  the  agony  of  the  mother 
at  loss  of  her  two  hundred  francs  bore  in  upon  the  soul 
of  the  clerk,  and  that  was  why  he  had  sprung  from 
his  stool  and  eagerly  grasped  the  opportunity  to  furnish 
his  mother  with  sufficient  money  to  make  good  her  loss — 
why!  two  hundred  francs  meant  the  saving  of  all  that 
Pierre  loved  best  in  the  world — his  mother — from  prison. 

"Monsieur,  how  kind  you  are !  I  can  never  repay 
you."  And  the  clerk  went  to  where  the  chemist  was 
standing,  and,  catching  the  long,  emaciated  hand  in  his, 
grasped  it  and  shook  it  long — looking  all  the  while 
steadily,  half  in  adoration,  into  the  unhealthy  face  of 
"his  leader,  his  grace." 

"There,  my  boy,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  happy.  When 
you  asked  me  for  the  two  hundred  francs  I  thought  of 
it  each  hour,  and  fate  has  willed  it  that  I  have  been  able 
at  last  to  give  it  to  you.  It  is  nearing  midnight — I  go 
to  the  Madeleine — the  Mass  is  at  twelve — if  any  one 
should  call  for  me,  you  know  where  to  find  me — at  the 
church  or  on  the  way  from  the  church.  I  will  take  the 
key  with  me.  If  any  one  knocks,  you  can  open  from 
within." 

239 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

The  clerk  was  standing  near  the  counter,  looking  at 
the  roses  and  then  at  the  chemist — so  much  kindness 
on  the  part  of  Alia  Dekkah — so  much  beauty  with  the 
roses.  By  the  expression  of  his  face  it  was  evident 
Pierre  was  thinking  seriously  about  something  he  would 
like  to  ask.  Suddenly,  as  if  by  force,  his  tongue  was 
loosed:  "Kind  Monsieur,  do  you  know  my  mother?" 

"Yes,"   replied  the  chemist.     "What?    Speak,  boy." 

"Monsieur,  she  may  go  to  the  Madeleine ;  tell  her, 
if  you  chance  to  see  her,  that  Pierre  has  the  two  hundred 
francs."  And  the  clerk  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

The  chemist  walked  over  to  where  Pierre  was  stand- 
ing, and,  stroking  his  head  in  fatherly  fashion,  said: 
"My  boy,  that  is  all  right.  What  you  ask  of  me  is  noble. 
The  two  hundred  francs  are  yours,  and  the  old  chemist 
does  not  care  a  farthing  what  becomes  of  the  money." 

While  Alia  Dekkah  spoke  he  looked  at  himself  in  a 
small  mirror  just  behind  the  clerk;  then  he  walked 
quickly  toward  the  door,  put  the  key  in  'the  lock  and 
said,  as  he  stood  in  the  door,  prepared  to  step  out: 
"Good-bye,  Pierre.  In  one  hour  I  will  come  back. 
The  powder  to  be  used  by  you  in  preparing  the  roses 
you  will  find  in  the  jar  with  the  'X'  label."  He  stepped 
out  quickly,  pulled  the  door  to  and  turned  the  key. 

Pierre,  half-dazed,  heard  the  retreating  steps  of  the 
chemist  on  the  sidewalk.  He  was  frantic — "the  'X'  label. 
Wretch — wretch — not  to  tell  me  before — to  kill  some 
person — to  send  an  unprepared  soul  into  eternity !  Oh ! 
Villain !— villain !" 

He  ran  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  He  would  follow 
the  chemist;  he  would  tell  him  that  he  was  not  a  mur- 
derer. He  looked  up  and  down  the  street,  but  the 
apothecary  was  not  to  be  seen.  He  must  have  gone 
up  the  street,  for  he  was  going  to  the  Madeleine.  Then 

240 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

the  clerk  laughed  at  himself:  "To  trust  the  word  of  a 
villain!  Have  I  not  left  my  swaddling  clothes?" 

Now  the  chemist  had  anticipated  all  this;  he  knew 
Pierre  was  an  honest  French  boy,  and  that  not  an  iota 
of  the  ignoble  was  found  in  the  composition  of  the  tiniest 
fibre  of  his  being.  He  knew  that  when  Pierre  had  con- 
sented to  powder  the  roses  he  had  thought  they  were 
to  be  prepared  for  floral  investigation — perhaps  preser- 
vation of  a  rare  kind  of  rose.  Pierre  had  never  thought 
of  a  poison. 

But  Pierre  wanted  money,  for  during  the  two  weeks 
just  past  he  had  been  almost  crazed  at  the  grief  of  his 
mother,  and  all  this  the  chemist  knew,  since  Pierre  had 
asked  him  to  lend  him  the  two  hundred  francs. 

When  the  apothecary  had  gone  out  of  the  pharmacy 
he  reasoned  that  were  he  to  remain  in  the  store  Pierre 
would  most  probably  refuse  to  do  it ;  but  leave  the  clerk 
alone — with  silence  and  just  one  hour  from  the  coveted 
two  hundred  francs,  and  he — Pierre — would  do  it. 

The  chemist  was  not  going  to  Mass.  He  might  go  to 
the  church,  enter  and  look  around,  kneel,  and  his  lips 
move  in  prayer,  but  his  face  would  never  change  expres- 
sion. If  in  walking  around  in  the  church  he  should  find 
himself  face  to  face  or  in  a  direct  line  from  the  image 
of  the  Holy  Virgin,  or  some  saint,  he  would  cross  him- 
self; for  Jean  Baptiste  Alia  Dekkah  was  well  known 
and  often  recognized  by  a  great  number  of  people,  and 
so,  when  he  entered  a  church  he  must  cross  himself  or 
be  too  keenly  observed.  And  since  Alia  Dekkah  did  not 
always  follow  the  path  of  lightness  in  his  business — 
who  knows  ? — maybe  the  very  person  who  remarked  that 
he  did  not  cross  himself  would  recognize  him  in  some  of 
his  paths  of  darkness.  Then  in  the  windows  of  the 
pharmacy,  on  the  rather  wide  street,  would  be  hung  pla- 
cards, and  the  door  would  be  locked.  He — Alia  Dekkah 

241 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

— would  have  been  caught.  So  he  crossed  himself  and 
affected  grave  piety  whenever  he  entered  a  church.  Mid- 
night Mass  lasted  one  hour — from  twelve  to  one  o'clock 
Christmas  morning.  But  to-night,  when  Alia  Dekkah 
would  go  to  the  Madeleine,  he  would  search  the  main 
steps,  he  would  look  behind  the  columns  at  the  front 
of  the  entrance,  and,  not  seeing  him  whom  he  searched 
for,  he  would  enter  the  church.  He  would  only  remain 
inside,  however,  a  very,  very  few  minutes;  he  would 
cross  himself,  kneel,  articulate  a  labial  prayer,  rise,  and 
would  renew  his  search  of  the  kneeling  crowd  as  best 
he  could  without  moving.  Still  not  seeing  the  one  for 
whom  he  was  looking,  he  would  glance  around  at  the 
vast,  vaulted,  great  nave,  at  the  flickering  lights  of  hun- 
dreds of  tall  waxen  candles,  at  the  gorgeous  robes  of  the 
priests,  at  the  small  boys  as  they  continually  swung  the 
censers  to  and  fro,  in  which  the  sweet  incense  half  burned 
and  smoked,  and  then  he  would  listen  to  a  peal  of 
music  and  a  chorus  of  unseen  voices,  so  as  to  foil  any 
one  who  might  have  noticed  his  searching  look.  Then 
he  would  cross  himself  again  and  leave,  for  this  scene 
spoke  of  another  world,  where  the  Devil  does  not  belong. 

Alia  Dekkah  was  to  meet  near  or  about  this  hour  of 
Midnight  Mass,  in  the  Madeleine,  or  lingering  about  its 
steps,  a  man  very  much  like  himself,  except  that  this 
man  had  the  good  fortune  to  carry  a  Christian  name, 
and,  therefore,  people  trusted  him;  and,  being  shrewd 
and  wily  as  Alia  Dekkah  himself,  he  had  made  a  small 
fortune.  But  he  was  greedy,  and  this  was  why  they 
met — these  two — at  midnight,  to  conclude  a  very  long 
and  cunningly  contrived  scheme,  which  was  to  end  the 
life  of  a  helpless  old  man. 

With  papers  signed  under  duress,  by  which  the 
stranger,  as  guardian  of  the  old  imbecile — which  the 
sworn  statement  of  the  chemist,  who  acted  as  doctor, 

242 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

would  verify  the  helpless  (though  sane)  old  man  to  be — 
could  legally  obtain  for  himself,  as  guardian,  and  Alia 
Dekkah,  as  doctor,  the  sum  of  3,000,000  francs,  which 
was  to  be  parceled  into  halves  between  these  two  rascals. 
And  this  was  why  Alia  Dekkah  himself  did  not  powder 
the  roses — 1,500,000  francs,  his  share  of  the  old  man's 
estate,  was  something  more  than  5,000  francs ;  for,  even 
though  the  sifting  of  powder  deep  down  between  the 
petals  of  one  dozen  American  Beauty  roses  was  very  easy 
to  a  chemist  like  Alia  Dekkah,  yet  there  was  great  risk 
of  detection.  Although  Alia  Dekkah  only  grabbed  for 
great  things,  he  was  like  all  his  kind,  he  was  greedy 
for  gain,  and  the  promise  of  a  sack  of  gold  containing 
5,000  francs  was  not  at  all  displeasing  to  his  avaricious 
instinct.  Therefore  Alia  Dekkah  had  asked  the  clerk 
to  do  it,  knowing  that  Pierre  was  in  the  direst  need  of 
two  hundred  francs.  He  was  certain  the  clerk  would 
do  it ;  for  he  himself  had  fallen  by  a  like  occurrence,  and 
Pierre  was  not  as  strong  as  he  had  been  in  his  youth. 
He  knew  that  when  Pierre  should  realize  it  was  poison 
that  must  be  sifted  upon  the  flowers,  Pierre  would  follow 
him  and  tell  him  that  he  could  not  do  it;  so  when  the 
chemist  left  the  door  he  crossed  the  street  and  turned 
into  a  passageway — a  half  alley. 

He  had  reasoned  rightly,  for  three  seconds  had  not 
passed  until  the  chemist,  from  his  hiding  place,  saw  the 
door  open,  saw  the  clerk  come  out  and  look  up  and  down 
the  street,  saw  him  shrug  his  shoulders,  turn  and  go 
back  into  the  store,  and  then  he  heard  the  door  close 
and  the  inside  lock  snap  on  its  spring. 

After  Pierre  shut  the  door  he  crossed  over  to  the 
counter  on  which  the  roses  lay.  He  put  them  into  the 
box  very  carefully  and  one  by  one,  then  he  laid  the 
tissue  over  them,  put  on  the  cover  and  pushed  the  box 
to  the  farthest  end  of  the  counter. 

243 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

He  would  think  no  more  about  it — but  his  mother — 
what  of  her?  How  happy  she  would  be  if  the  chemist 
should  see  her  and  tell  her  that  her  son  had  earned — 
earned? — the  two  hundred  francs.  He  did  not  speak 
aloud,  but  the  meaning  was  very  distinct  to  him.  But, 
then,  could  he  tell  his  mother  how  he  had  earned  them? 
Would  she  ask?  Maybe  not — two  hundred  francs,  so 
near — it  sounded  good  to  hear,  two  hundred  francs. 
How  little  the  world  helped  when  one  was  in  distress! 
Money ! — money ! 

The  clerk,  Pierre,  knew  that  the  prison  stared  his 
mother  in  the  face.  A  week  and  she  would  be  taken, 
and,  of  course,  convicted  as  a  thief. 

Never!  never!  he  would  die  rather  than  see  his 
mother  lodged  in  prison.  She. had  stood  by  him  through 
six-and-twenty  long,  weary  years.  He  would  stand  by 
her  now.  Yet  he  revolted  from  doing  the  one  act  that 
alone  offered  what  he  wanted — the  two  hundred  francs. 
Who  would  help  him  ?  No  one !  No  one !  He  remembered 
what  the  priest  had  said  when  he  had  gone  and  asked 
help  of  him :  "My  son,  the  sum  you  ask  is  large.  I  have 
no  money,  and  I  know  no  one  from  whom  to  get  it. 
Trust  in  God." 

"God" — the  clerk  almost  hissed  the  word — "God, 
God — I  asked  God  for  help.  Is  this  what  I  am  to  do — 
poison  flowers — poison  some  human  being — a  priest — 
God— poison — death — my  soul  lost!"  At  this  mo- 
ment he  disbelieved  in  the  church.  He  said  there  was 
no  God — all  was  false.  Oh!  poor  humanity!  What  was 
government?  He  was  becoming  an  anarchist.  Who 
cared  for  him?  Why  should  he  care  if  he  poisoned  a 
human  being?  No,  he  cared  not.  He  would  poison  any 
one  to  save  his  mother.  He  would  do  it. 

He  walked  over  to  the  counter  and  lifted  off  the  lid 
from  the  box.  He  took  out  the  roses ;  his  hands  worked 

244 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS.   , 

rapidly  while  he  carefully  parted  the  outer  petals,  but 
his  fingers  were  becoming  unsteady,  and  as  he  went  on 
he  worked  more  slowly.  He  laid  down  the  roses  and 
went  to  where  the  black  stone  jar  with  the  "X"  label 
stood  in  the  second  row.  He  could  easily  reach  it — 
why  did  he  hesitate?  It  meant  the  two  hundred  francs, 
or  the  prison  for  his  mother.  He  stretched  up  his  arms, 
but  they  were  not  the  arms  or  hands  of  a  few  moments 
past,  for  now  they  were  very  nervous  hands,  and  a  steady 
tremor  shook  his  arms.  He  saw  it  and  tried  to  shake 
it  off,  but  it  was  not  a  spell  to  be  waved  off.  It  was  the 
action  of  a  struggling  brain. 

"How  now !"  and  he  jumped  back  without  the  jar. 
He  had  ejaculated  aloud  and  his  voice  sounded  hollow. 
It  was  some  one  else  spoke,  and  yet  he  knew  well  that 
the  weird  exclamation  had  come  from  no  one  but  him- 
self. Something  was  climbing  up  to  the  ceiling.  It  had, 
no  doubt,  been  walking  on  the  cover  of  the  jar,  for  the 
outside  of  the  jar  had  kept  company  with  the  inside. 
The  outside  was  dusty  and  black,  and  the  inside  was 
black  with  the  baneful  powder.  It  was  a  spider,  not  very 
large,  not  very  small,  and  spiders,  like  evil,  frequent 
the  place  of  ill-kept  solitude.  Why  had  he  been  afraid 
of  a  spider?  He  could  not  answer.  A  chill  shook  his 
frame,  and  his  eyes  stuck  out  of  their  sockets.  "Come, 
I  will  do  it."  He  shook  himself,  and  the  hugely  dis- 
torted thing  which  had  held  him  tightly  grasped  let  go. 
He  was  free  now — he  understood  everything  plainly 
now — he  was  to  poison  one  dozen  roses  and  receive  two 
hundred  francs — and  his  mother  would  not  go  to  prison. 
That  was  all.  He  would  do  it. 

His  teeth  set  and  his  lips  parted  and  drew  back.  The 
sinister  gleam  of  two  balls  which  started  from  their 
sockets  told  that  what  a  mind  willed  a  soul  fought.  His 
arms  were  steady  now.  He  could  trust  himself,  and  he 

245 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

again  reached  for  the  "X"  labeled  jar  with  something  of 
demonian  pride.  His  fingers  clasped  around  the  jar — 
one — two — three — four — the  clock  of  the  shop  was  strik- 
ing. He  fell  back  and  his  outstretched  arms  hit  heavily 
against  his  sides.  Was  this  the  ghost  of  his  infancy, 
come  to  taunt  him? — five — six — seven — the  clock  went 
on.  It  was  unmoved — it  was  like  the  world — so  cold! — 
so  cold ! — so  unsympathetic ! 

"God!" — he  fell  on  his  knees — "hast  Thou  no  pity? 
Help  me! — save  me — mercy!  great  God!" —  But  glad- 
ness came  not.  He  had  renounced  God.  He  had  re- 
nounced faith,  and  he  forgot  that  the  mind  can  no  more 
momentarily  change  its  convictions  than  a  culprit  can 
sham  the  part  of  innocence — than  the  earth  retrace  its 
revolutions — than  a  green  blade  become  a  red  rose — than 
the  soul  belong  to  the  Devil.  It  is  the  law  of  nature — 
it  is  the  law  of  worlds — it  is  the  law  of  the  universe — 
everything  that  is  natural  is  gradual,  is  created  and  lives 
thus. 

Pierre  was  not  altogether  an  extraordinary  man  nor 
an  immortal  being.  He  was  a  noble  man,  and  in  that  he 
was  extraordinary.  He  had  a  soul,  and  in  that  he  was 
immortal;  but  in  mind  and  body  as  a  whole,  he  was  an 
ordinary  being — born  guileless,  capable  of  joy  or  despair, 
and  dies  innocent.  This  last — innocence — is  often  spot- 
less, but  more  often  stained. 

Three  more  strikes  and  the  clock  would  stop,  and 
then  there  would  be  silence — Ten,  sounded  the  clock 
in  a  low  swing — it  would  strike  twelve — the  hour 
of  midnight — the  hour  of  Holy  Mass — the  hour  his 
mother  used  to  take  him  to  the  Mass  of  Christmas  eve. 
He  would  take  the  tongue  out  of  the  clock — he  would 
twist  the  wires — it  should  not  mock  him  so.  He  went 
toward  the  clock,  but  recoiled — something  was  calling 
within  him.  "Pierre,  remember  the  past — remember 

246 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

when  you  were  a  child,  how  your  mother  used  to  sing  you 
to  sleep.  Remember  when  you  went  to  Christmas  Mass. 
Remember  how  your  mother  pleaded  with  you  not  to 
forget  your  prayers  when  you  entered  the  army.  Re- 
member how  happy  you  were  one  hour  ago,  before  the 
devil  whispered  in  at  your  ear.  Pierre!  forget  not  to- 
night to  pray — pray  now,  Pierre — it  is  the  Holy  Hour." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  but  tears  would 
not  come.  He  sank  down  in  a  chair.  He  ran  his  fingers 
through  his  hair,  and  pressed  the  two  palms  against 
either  side  of  his  head,  as  if  he  would  crush  in  his  skull. 

He  listened — the  last  stroke  sounded,  echoed  and  died 
away.  He  was  alone,  quite  alone — the  chemist  would  not 
return  for  a  half-hour.  Why  was  there  something  more 
than  himself,  more  than  this  body,  in  the  room?  Fif- 
teen minutes  passed,  and  still  he  came  to  no  conclusion. 
Every  now  and  then  he  would  move  uneasily  in  the  chair 
into  which  he  had  fallen.  He  seized  its  arms  con- 
vulsively and  stared  around  the  room. 

Pierre  Agneau  had  been  born  in  a  little  village  in  the 
center  of  France.  When  he  was  five  years  old  his  father 
had  died  and  his  mother  had  decided  to  go  to  Paris. 
She  had  quite  a  small  fortune  for  a  woman  of  her  class — 
a  fortune  gained  by  dint  of  hard  labor  by  her  husband 
and  saving  by  herself.  Pierre  should  enter  a  monastery, 
for  he  was  to  become  a  priest.  Had  she  ever  seen  her- 
self a  concierge,  her  son  an  apothecary's  clerk,  she  never 
had  left  the  small,  quiet  village  sleeping  on  the  Loire; 
but  she  saw  herself  in  an  apartment,  her  son  a  Bishop — 
maybe  a  Cardinal.  Thus  they  had  come  and  had  settled 
in  Paris.  Pierre  had  gone  to  the  schools,  and  at  twelve 
had  entered  a  monastery.  Eight  years  had  passed  thus, 
when  Pierre  was  twenty-one.  He  must  enter  the  army, 
for  he  was  a  Frenchman.  Pierre  entered  the  army,  but 
when  he  left  it,  three  years  later,  he  did  not  return  to  the 

247 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

monastery  nor  to  the  cozy  apartment.  He  could  not 
become  a  priest — he  had  seen  life,  and  his  mother's  small 
sum  had  dwindled  away,  so  that  now  she  was  the  con- 
cierge of  a  building  on  Rue  La  Perouse.  Then  Pierre 
had  become  the  clerk  of  Alia  Dekakh. 

Why  not  kill  the  chemist  when  he  would  return 
and -steal  the  two  hundred  francs?  Pierre  could  easily 
choke  him — choke  him  to  death.  It  would  be  past  mid- 
night, and  the  policeman  would  be  at  the  head  of  the 
rather  wide  street.  Then  he  could  have  the  two  hundred 
francs,  and  he  would  not  have  to — poison — but — he 
would  choke  a  man — he  would  kill  a  man.  Then  he 
would  be  a  murderer  and  a  thief — a  cold-blooded  mur- 
derer, too — horrible ! — horrible ! — it  would  be  infinitely 
better  to. poison  one  dozen  roses  and  gain  two  hundred 
francs. 

Then  the  mind  of  the  troubled  man  questioned  so 
rapidly  that  the  conscience  could  not  answer. 

Two  hundred  francs ! — two  hundred  francs  ! — two 
hundred  francs !  Pierre,  who  are  you  ?  Who  will  give 
you  that  sum?  Pierre,  are  you  a  fool?  Why  have  you 
been  so  long?  Come,  but  his  voice  had  changed,  his  face 
was  that  of  a  culprit.  Pierre  of  five-and-forty  minutes 
past  had  gone. 

He  rose  from  this  gloomy  dialogue,  where  his  mind 
had  been  the  accuser  and  the  soul  the  accused,  walked 
to  the  counter  where  the  roses  were  lying — his  walk  had 
changed — he  turned  his  head  every  now  and  then  and 
looked  behind  him.  He  walked  over  to  where  the  stone 
jar  stood  upon  the  second  shelf.  He  did  not  hesitate 
this  time;  he  took  it  down  and  retraced  his  steps  to 
where  the  roses  lay  so  helpless  in  their  innocence  of  the 
crime  which  they  might  be  forced  as  accomplices  to  per- 
petrate. He  gathered  them  up  and  disappeared  behind 

248 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

the  screen — he  would  not  trust  himself  to  let  his  eyes 
rest  upon  them. 

Fifteen  minutes  slipped  away,  and  the  room,  which 
had  been  so  lately  the  struggle  of  a  soul — now  van- 
quished— was  as  silent  as  a  tomb ;  but  it  was  as  it  should 
have  been,  for  it  was  the  tomb  of  a  soul. 

Click — the  key  turned  and  a  sallow  face,  with  spider 
eyes,  thrust  its  head  in  at  the  opening.  It  was  Alia 
Dekkah,  and,  seeing  no  one,  he  came  in  and  shut  the 
door. 

"Pierre,  Pierre." 

"Well?"  It  was  the  new  Pierre  who  answered,  as 
he  emerged  from  behind  the  screen.  "Here  they  are. 
Where's  the  money — the  two  hundred  francs?" 

"The — the  party  has  not  paid  me  yet,"  the  chemist 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  went  on:  "They  are  wait- 
ing— they  will  give  me  the  money  when  I  give  them 
the  roses — see — then  I  will  pay  you" —  Alia  Dekkah 
moved  cautiously  toward  the  door. 

"I  will  wait — you  will  come  back." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  chemist. 

He  was  startled,  the  voice  was  so  changed,  so  sinis- 
ter. He  was  dangerous.  How  his  eyes  gleamed!  But 
he  would  get  over  it.  The  first  act  had  been  a  struggle ; 
there  would  be  no  second — there  never  was  a  second. 
The  chemist  pushed  the  pasteboard  box  higher  under 
his  arm  and  went  out  the  door,  turned  the  key  and  went 
up  the  street.  As  he  rounded  a  corner,  had  he  been 
listening  he  would  have  heard  a  tightly  fitting  door  close, 
but  Alia  Dekkah  was  thinking  of  the  five  thousand 
francs  he  was  to  receive,  and  he  forgot  almost  every- 
thing except  that  he  was  to  have  five  thousand  francs 
in  a  few  moments,  and  he  grew  rapaciously  covetous. 
He  would  not  part  with  one  sou — two  hundred  francs 
to  a  clerk — preposterous!  No  such  foolishness.  He 

249 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

turned  another  corner ;  there  was  the  cab  as  it  had  been 
prearranged. 

"Thanks,"  said  a  muffled  voice,  and  the  figure  in  the 
cab  handed,  under  cover  of  its  palm,  a  leather  bag  toward 
the  chemist. 

His  long,  too-tapering  fingers  closed  around  the  sack 
and  he  uttered  a  few  incoherent  words. 

Evidently  it  was  the  same  mantled  figure  which  had 
given  the  chemist  the  long  pasteboard  box  earlier  in  the 
night — some  hour  and  a  half  earlier.  As  the  cab  drove 
away  Alia  Dekkah  did  not  retrace  his  steps  to  the  phar- 
macy, but  went  up  the  street  in  the  direction  of  the  disap- 
pearing cab.  He  chuckled  as  he  pocketed  the  sack — it 
was  heavy.  Just  then  he  passed  one  of  the  many  lamp- 
posts which  lined  the  small  street,  as  they  do  all  Parisian 
streets,  whether  large  or  small.  The  light  from  the 
lamp-post  shone  brightly,  but  the  pedestal  was  thicker 
than  the  pedestals  of  the  city  lamp-posts  usually  are. 

When  the  concierge  of  the  building  on  La  Perouse 
had  left  the  village  of  Lasource  with  her  small  boy, 
Pierre,  she  had  left  one  faithful  creature  behind — her 
mother-in-law.  She  was  very  old — three-and-seventy 
had  long  since  passed.  This  December,  when  she  had 
come  on  her  Christmas  visit,  the  concierge  had  told  her 
of  the  loss.  She  had  listened,  and,  as  was  her  custom, 
began  to  pray.  It  was  all  she  could  do.  To-night  at 
almost  twelve  o'clock  the  concierge  had  left  for  Mass. 
She  went  to  a  near  by  church,  and  the  mother-in-law 
was  left  alone  to  guard  the  building  and  to  say  her 
prayers. 

Thus  it  happened  that  a  little  after  half-past  twelve, 
the  earliest  minutes  of  Christmas  morn,  found  a  bent, 
old  woman  on  her  knees,  uttering  her  soulful  prayer, 
while  a  tall,  sphinx-like  figure,  carrying  a  pasteboard 

250 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

box,  looked  in  at  the  window  of  the  lodge.  She  had 
evidently  knocked,  and  wondered  why  the  bent  form  did 
not  come  and  open  the  door,  for  the  cat  which  had  been 
sleeping  in  front  of  the  fireplace  had  gotten  up  to  look 
out  into  the  corridor. 

As  the  old  woman  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  second 
floor  the  figure  which  wore  the  half  mantilla  and  carried 
the  pasteboard  box  followed  her. 

"What  is  this  creature  ?  A  woman,  no  doubt — she  says 
she  is,  and  that  she  is  an  American."  Many  such  queries 
presented  themselves  in  quick  succession  to  be  answered 
by  the  mind  of  the  old  woman.  "No  doubt,  she  is  an 
American,  and  has  just  landed,  for  she  has  a  long,  loose 
cloak  and  the  American  abundance  of  veiling.  That  is 
the  way  so  many  thousands  of  Americans  look  when 
they  tour  in  their  big  automobiles  through  my  little 
village  of  Lasource.  Miss  White — what  an  odd  name — 
but  it  sounds  quite  American.  No  doubt,  this  woman — 
this  Miss  White — and  this  Miss  Pembroke  are  great 
friends  over  there  in  America."  Here  the  old  woman's 
eye  fell  on  an  American  flag  pinned  on  the  outside  of 
the  mantilla  close  to  Miss  White's  face.  But  the  poor 
old  woman  was  too  worried  with  their  loss  to  think 
more  of  Miss  White  or  of  what  she  was  doing.  Miss 
White  had  spoken  clearly,  and  seemed  to  conceal  noth- 
ing. It  would  be  all  right  to  let  her  in — the  mother-in- 
law  was  from  Touraine,  and  was  innocent — too  innocent 
— for  Paris. 

They  had  reached  the  second  floor,  and  the  old  wom- 
an, while  she  fitted  the  key  into  the  lock,  eyed  askance 
the  tall  mantled  figure.  There  was  no  light  in  the  corri- 
dor, except  on  the  ground  floor,  for,  in  accordance  with 
the  custom  of  the  place,  all  the  hall  lights  were  extin- 
guished after  ten  o'clock ;  so  the  old  woman  was  carry- 
ing a  candle,  and  the  small  light  cast  moving  shadows 

251 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

and  barely  outlined  the  lay  of  the  surrounding  walls  and 
floor.  There  was,  though,  enough  light  to  discern  that 
the  door  which  the  old  woman  was  unlocking  did  not 
communicate  directly  with  the  floor  of  the  second  land- 
ing. There  were  double  doors,  and  the  width  of  the  pas- 
sage was  the  same  as  the  width  of  the  doors.  The  stairs 
were  spiral  and  curled  up  and  down  four  stories  above 
the  second  landing  and  two  stories  below. 

Yes,  she  must  be  an  American,  for  she  spoke  with 
an  accent;  besides,  there  could  be  no  wrong  in  letting  a 
young  lady  go  into  the  apartment  of  a  young  lady  she 
knew  in  America,  and  the  mother  would  tell  her  daugh- 
ter-in-law when  she  should  return  from  Mass. 

"Since  Mademoiselle  is  a  friend,  I  think  it  will  be  all 
right  to  let  Mademoiselle  in.  There !  the  door  is  opened. 
Does  Mademoiselle  wish  to  take  my  candle,  or  shall 
I  go  in  and  turn  on  the  light?" 

"Oh,  no;  I  have  my  flash  light,"  answered  Mademoi- 
selle, with  her  odd  accent. 

"Mademoiselle,  I  will  leave  the  key  in  the  door,  and 
when  you  are  done,  lock  the  door  and  bring  me  the  key. 
I  will  be  in  the  lodge.  If  you  only  wait  a  little,  you 
may  meet  your  friend,  Mademoiselle  Pembroke.  She 
went  to  Holy  Mass  at  the  Madeleine ;  it  has  been  at  least 
fifteen  minutes  since  the  clock  struck  the  half  after 
twelve;  she  should  be  back  in  a  little  while." 

The  stranger  gave  a  start  and  moved  toward  the 
dark  room,  but  the  old  woman  did  not  notice  it,  and 
went  on:  "She  will  be  back,  I  am  sure,  and  very  soon, 
too;  then  you  can  speak  with  her." 

"You  are  very  obliging" — and  the  cloaked  stranger 
pushed  a  gold  piece  into  the  shriveled  hand  of  the  bent 
form  of  the  aged  grandmother  of  honest  Pierre  Agneau, 
clerk  in  the  pharmacy  of  Jean  Baptiste  Alia  Dekkah. 

252 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"Thanks,"  said  the  old  woman ;  "you  are  very  kind — 
kinder  than  is  some  of  the  world,"  and  she  gave  a  deep 
sigh,  then  continued:  "Give  me  your  blessing,  generous 
lady;  I  thank  you,  but  I  can  not  take  this  money,  for  I 
have  not  earned  it,"  and  she  handed  back  the  gold  piece. 
"God  will  bless  you,"  said  the  stranger.  The  words 
were  uttered  mechanically,  but  the  old  woman  received 
them  with  the  word  "Amen."  The  stranger  went  into 
the  apartment  and  softly  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

She  listened  to  the  feeble  steps  slowly  and  totteringly 
descending  the  stairs  by  the  aid  of  the  small  flickering 
light  which  the  old  woman  carried  in  her  trembling  hand. 
What  a  different  concierge  from  the  one  she  had  sup- 
posed she  should  find  in  such  a  building  as  this  hand- 
some apartment  building  on  Rue  La  Perouse,  in  the 
Etoile  quarter  of  Paris!  She  must  be  carefully  and  art- 
fully dealt  with — prevarication  must  be  used,  and  if  that 
failed,  falsification  put  in  its  stead. 

Quick!  to  work!  what  if  Miss  Pembroke  should  re- 
turn ! 

She  flashed  on  the  light.  This  was  evidently  the 
drawing-room,  for  there  was  a  grand  piano  and  other 
artistic  furnishings,  which  spoke  of  the  singer's  studio. 
There  were  two  large  casement  windows,  and  the  cur- 
tains not  being  drawn,  the  balustrade  of  a  balcony  could 
be  seen.  The  figure  carrying  the  pasteboard  box  stood 
still  and  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  then  she  glided 
out  of  the  drawing-room  into  the  small  boudoir;  obvi- 
ously, this  boudoir  was  not  suitable  to  her  purpose,  for 
she  went  into  the  bedroom,  where  she  paused  and 
looked  around  her.  The  room  was  large  and  airy.  There 
was  an  extra  wide  casement  window.  A  flash  of  the 
light  revealed  a  heavy  brass  bed,  a  mahogany  dresser, 
toilet-table  and  chairs  to  match.  The  curtains  hanging 
at  the  window  were  ecru  lace  and  silk — the  design,  Cath- 

253 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

erine'de  Medici.  There  were  also  pale  green  padded 
curtains  of  a  rich  silk,  which  were  not  drawn. 

On  a  small  stand  near  the  mantel  stood  a  china  vase. 
In  the  vase  was  a  large  bouquet  of  dark  red  roses,  and 
for  the  first  time  the  muffled  intruder  laid  down  the 
pasteboard  box  and  made  a  movement  as  if  to  open  the 
box,  and  then  did  not,  but  walked  to  the  small  stand 
and  lifted  the  roses  out  of  the  vase.  One  of  the  flowers 
fell  to  pieces.  She  uttered  a  low  growl,  and,  kneeling 
down,  gathered  up  the  petals ;  then  the  woman  stood  still 
and  scanned  the  walls. 

"There  is  a  closet.  Ha !  ha !  how  stupid !"  And  going 
to  the  closet,  she  opened  the  masked  door  and  threw  the 
roses  into  it,  shut  the  door  carefully,  locked  it  and  slipped 
the  key  into  her  pocket,  saying:  "This  closet  will  not 
open  to-night.  Ugh !  what  do  I  do  ?"  For  as  she  had  come 
toward  the  closet,  in  passing  a  high-backed  chair  one 
of  the  roses  had  struck,  and  its  petals  had  been  scattered 
and  had  fallen  partly  on  a  sofa  and  partly  on  the  pol- 
ished floor.  She  quickly  brushed  the  petals  off  the  sofa 
and  pushed  them  under  it;  but,  turning  abruptly,  the 
train  of  the  mantilla  swept  under  the  sofa,  gathered  up 
the  petals  and  left  them  near  the  window.  Then  she 
closed  her  mouth,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe,  and  her 
hands  worked  rapidly  as  she  parceled  while  she  counted 
three,  six,  eight,  twelve — the  midnight  visitor  was  al- 
most purple  in  the  face — she  was  holding  her  breath. 
She  placed  them  in  the  vase  and  then  lifted  the  vessel, 
put  it  on  a  low  stand  close  beside  the  head  of  the  bed 
and  a  little  behind  a  large  armchair. 

Then  hurriedly  returning  to  where  the  pasteboard  box 
lay,  she  pushed  the  lid  on,  and,  rushing  to  the  window, 
opened  it  and  took  a  long,  deep  breath  of  pure,  fresh  air. 

Then  the  neck  grew  long  and  slanting,  and  the  body 
instinctively  drew  back — she  was  listening.  There  was  a 

254 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

sound — footsteps  on  the  pavement  below — those  of  a 
young  woman.  No  doubt  it  was  Miss  Pembroke.  Yes, 
they  were  pausing  at  the  entrance.  Hark!  the  footsteps 
had  ceased — the  great  door  of  the  building  closed  with 
a  jar — quick! — escape! — she  must  gain  the  main  hall! — 
must  get  out  of  this  apartment,  at  least,  before  the  young 
woman  should  come  upon  this  landing.  The  corridor 
was  dark  and  it  was  near  one  o'clock.  There  were  deep 
recesses  in  the  corridor  where  she  could  hide. 

She  drew  her  head  in  and  closed  the  casement  hastily, 
but  forgot  to  turn  the  lock.  Three  rooms  were  not  many 
to  cross,  but  the  great  outside  door  had  already  shut, 
and  the  incomer  was  mounting  the  stairs.  There  was  the 
door  of  the  apartment — she  hurried  toward  it,  but — there 
was  a  sound  of  a  falling  body,  and  then  something  hap- 
pened— something  which  the  intruder  never  forgot — a 
mighty  roar  of  dissonance.  In  falling  she  had  tried  to 
save  herself,  and  instinctively  had  thrown  out  her  hands, 
which  had  struck  the  lowest  keys  of  the  grand  piano. 
The  woman  uttered  a  low  "Diavolo."  She  arose  and  at 
last  found  the  door,  opened  it  noiselessly,  but  she  did  not 
move  out  into  the  corridor,  for  some  one  was  very  near 
the  door — a  rustling  of  skirts — a  sound  of  footsteps  con- 
tinued to  mount  the  stairs. 

Was  it  a  woman  ?  The  corridor  was  too  black  to  dis- 
cern, and  did  the  newly  arrived  person  come  toward  this 
door?  That  was  also  uncertain,  for  the  stairs  led  to 
floors  above,  and  this  door  must  be  passed  by  one  going 
to  an  upper  landing ;  also,  the  walls  were  rounded,  there- 
fore there  was  an  echo  up  and  down  the  stairway,  but 
an  echo  is  a  false  voice — it  is  like  everything  that  is  false 
— not  to  be  trusted. 


255 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  clock  outside  the  Madeleine,  just  in  front  of  the 
steps  leading  up  to  the  church,  told  the  worshiper  that 
the  hour  for  the  Midnight  Mass  was  at  hand ;  and  many 
were  the  hundreds  of  believers  who  thronged  its  sacred 
portals,  for  the  services  held  there  in  commemora- 
tion of  the  birth  of  the  Founder  of  that  belief,  in  which 
so  many  stately  and  magnificent  churches  have  been 
erected.  A  goodly  portion  of  those  entering  at  the 
sacred  portals  was  there,  because  of  deep-seated  devo- 
tion. These  would  rather  have  died  than  have  found 
themselves  deprived  of  the  solace  afforded  by  the  ful- 
fillment of  their  religious  vows. 

Others  were  there  to  listen  to  the  glorious  strains  of 
music,  the  inspiration  of  some  devotee  of  the  religion  of 
that  Babe  born  upon  earth  some  nineteen  hundred  years 
before,  to  bring  harmony  and  peace  among  mankind. 
Though  they  might  feel  themselves  not  of  the  number 
of  believers,  whose  names  were  found  upon  perishable 
books  of  organizations — broadly  named  the  church — still 
they  were,  in  truth,  children  of  God — followers  of  Christ 
— full  and  firm  believers  in  His  faith;  else  they  had  not 
been  out  at  midnight  seeking  entrance  to  set  places  of 
worship  to  hear  the  music — sacred  music — which  Christ's 
creed  had  inspired  within  the  spiritual  sense  of  musical 
minds.  Then,  too,  there  were  others  who  were  there 
simply  because  it  was  fashionable  to  go  to  the  Midnight 
Mass  or  to  the  Opera  as  part  of  the  form  of  a  reveillon 
or  midnight  party.  Alverstone  went,  as  he  had  always 
done  when  in  a  large  city,  because  he  was  a  lover  of 
music,  such  as  one  hears  at  Midnight  Mass.  And,  too, 

256 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

the  great  voices  of  the  operatic  world  are  heard  to  sing 
there  then,  and  the  organ,  with  its  wealth  of  glorious 
music,  is  of  itself  sufficient  to  compensate  for  all  difficul- 
ties overcome  in  order  to  be  present  at  a  Midnight  Mass ; 
and  this  organ  music  should  be  divine,  for  only  those 
who  are  on  the  heights  in  ability  to  send  out  wave  after 
wave  of  glorious  music  in  thunderous  rolls  of  the  grand 
anthem,  or  in  the  rich,  soul-stirring  accompaniment,  are 
ever  permitted  to  preside  at  this  organ  of  the  Madeleine ; 
and  this,  too,  after  the  severest  examination  in  the  world 
— an  examination  of  the  most  exhaustive  nature.  An  at- 
tendance upon  the  Midnight  Mass  of  the  Madeleine  in  the 
city  of  Paris  is  an  event  never  to  be  forgotten  in  the  life 
of  each  person  so  favored,  if  judged  only  by  the  beauty 
which  he  hears  from  the  organ  loft. 

Surely  no  one — Protestant  or  Catholic — ever  heard 
the  organ  in  the  Madeleine  and  the  singing  at  the  Mid- 
night Mass,  and  then  went  out  of  the  church  with  an 
ignoble  thought  rankling  within  his  breast. 

God  is  worshiped  in  spirit  and  in  truth,  and  not  by 
methods.  Religion  is  trust  in  God,  and  not  trust  in 
churches  of  any  creed  or-  form. 

The  Altar  was  resplendent  with  its  mass  of  lighted 
candles  and  glittering  gold ;  and,  though  it  must  strike 
a  Protestant  mind  very  differently  from  that  which  it 
represents  to  the  Catholic  mind,  it  yet  carries  to  the  Prot- 
estant mind  first,  the  idea  of  Purity,  and,  second,  the 
undying  Faith  of  the  devotee. 

The  front  seats  were  filled  by  those  whose  move- 
ments indicated  that  they  were  active  communicants  of 
that  belief,  while  in  the  rear  of  the  church  were  majiy 
who,  fully  as  earnest  in  their  devotions  as  those  in  the 
front  seats,  were  less  numerous — some  in  pairs,  others  in 
groups,  and  too,  many  a  lone  figure  knelt  at  the  Midnight 

257 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

Mass  perhaps  the  better  to  worship  in  this  entire  isola- 
tion. 

The  space  back  of  the  seats  was  more  than  comfort- 
ably filled  with  the  very  large  number  of  those,  most  of 
whom  came  only  for  a  few  minutes. 

Alverstone  had  gone  up  quite  a  distance  on  the  right 
side  of  the  church  and  formed  one  of  the  many  standing 
there.  As  yet  only  what,  to  Alverstone,  were  simply  mo- 
tions of  the  priests  at  the  High  Altar,  were  to  be  seen; 
so  he  looked  about  him  in  a  quiet,  unobtrusive  manner. 
After  a  survey  of  the  church  in  general  he  turned  his 
attention  to  the  people  about  him. 

There  was  the  old  woman  of  humble  birth,  but  with 
the  calmness  of  peaceful  trust  in  God,  lighting  her  face, 
for  which  the  most  powerful  potentate  must  envy  her: 
she  was  there  to  celebrate  in  spirit  and  in  truth  the  birth 
of  the  Babe,  whose  advent  upon  earth  meant  "Peace  and 
good  will  toward  men."  And  this  she  believed,  and  in 
this  peace  her  soul  rested. 

Yonder  stood  the  man  of  fashion,  and  a  little  beyond 
was  another,  seated.  They  were  of  the  same  mold — 
nothing  of  Nature's  hand  was  visible  about  them,  for  the 
hand  of  Fashion  had  made  them  from  one  mold.  Poor 
fellows !  no  doubt,  they  were  doing  their  little  in  a  devo- 
tional way,  the  result,  perhaps,  of  many  generations  of 
devout  ancestry ;  but,  so  far  as  they  were  concerned,  there 
remained  only  to  them  the  form,  for  they  were  very  curi- 
ously ruled  by  their  abnormally  developed  faculties  of 
self-esteem. 

Then  there  were  many  from  among  those  who  are 
known  as  the  class  who  never  toil,  who  never  spin,  who 
live — as  they  say — by  divine  right. 

Everywhere  Alverstone  turned  his  head  were  to  be 
seen  markedly  representative  persons  from  every  walk  of 
life. 

258 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

Suddenly  his  ear  heard  not  the  discourse  of  eternal 
life  as  spoken  to  his  soul  by  the  powerful  organ,  though 
it  continued  transmitting  the  heavenly  message  as  before ; 
for  the  harp  of  a  thousand  strings  had  ceased  its  func- 
tion, and  Love — beauteous  goddess — had  taken  up  the 
harp  of  Life  and  had  struck  the  deepest,  strongest,  the 
most  passionate  chord  of  that  harp — the  Chord  of  Love. 

Seated  some  little  distance  before  him  was  Julia 
Pembroke. 

He  had  often  wondered  if  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
crushing  love,  or  if  it  were  not  a  something  which  was 
capable  of  manufacture  only.  But  now  he  told  himself 
it  was  a  reality,  and  that  he  himself  had  felt  its  power — 
nay,  was  feeling  its  crushing  weight  at  this  moment,  and 
as  truly  as  ever  did  any  lover  of  whom  he  had  ever  read 
or  heard.  He  felt  sick  at  heart.  A  girl  of  her  will- 
power would  not  be  easily  persuaded  to  forsake  her 
musical  career  for  the  life  of  a  woman  at  the  head  of  a 
home,  nor  would  she  be  willing  to  divide  her  life  between 
devotion  to  her  art  and  devotion  to  a  husband  and  his 
interests.  "No,"  he  thought  on,  "she  is  beyond  me;  I 
am  sure  no  amount  of  persuasion  will  suffice  to  win  her." 

He  looked  at  the  neat,  trim,  young  woman,  wrapped 
in  the  solitude  of  her  own  contemplations.  He  felt  him- 
self in  love  with  the  pretty  little  hat  upon  her  daintily 
poised  head;  with  the  swelling  roll  of  rich  golden  hair; 
with  the  comb  and  pins  which  held  it  firmly  in  a  neat 
coiffure;  with  those  exquisitely  delicate  pink  shell  ears, 
set  so  beautifully  upon  the  sides  of  the  head ;  and,  above 
all,  with  that  inexplicably  perfect  poise  of  the  head  upon 
the  shapely  neck.  And  only  the  most  queenly  of  queens, 
he  thought,  ever  had  such  shoulders. 

Alverstone  saw  by  a  glance  around  him  that  the 
beautiful  young  woman  was  admired  by  more  pairs  of 
eyes  than  those  of  himself,  and  he  gathered  courage  to 

259 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

move  forward,  until  he  hoped  their  eyes  might  meet. 
And  then — he  felt  that  he  would  be  very  proud  indeed 
to  exchange  smiles;  and,  if  perchance  she  should  speak, 
that  would  be  supreme.  She  might  not  like  him  to  ad- 
dress her  here.  True,  she  was  a  Protestant,  like  himself, 
but  he  felt  she  was  a  great  respecter  of  all  forms  of  the 
Christian  religion. 

Without  knowing  just  how,  he  found  himself  in  the 
seat  behind  her,  but  a  little  to  her  left ;  then  leaning  for- 
ward, he  addressed  her  with :  "Good  evening,  Miss  Pem- 
broke." 

Julia  at  once  turned,  and,  putting  her  hand  before  her 
mouth,  said:  "Merry  Christmas,  Mr.  Alverstone.  Come 
sit  beside  me  here." 

Alverstone  arose  and  took  the  seat  made  vacant  by 
Julia,  for  she  had  been  seated  in  the  end,  and  had  moved 
in  to  make  a  place  for  him.  His  cup  of  delight  was  full ; 
he  was  seated  beside  this  American  singer — this  girl 
whom  he  loved  as  no  man  ever  before  loved,  he  thought. 

She  had  been  much  surprised  to  find  him  there  in  the 
seat  behind  her,  but  she  betrayed  no  surprise,  for,  having 
spent  the  past  six  years  in  the  heart  of  the  city  of  Paris, 
she  was  what  Victor  Hugo  pronounces  "a  Parisian,"  and 
Parisians  are  never  off  guard  in  matters  of  etiquette. 

The  choir  here  ceased  singing,  but  the  organ  con- 
tinued. 

"I  am  fortunate  to  find  myself  here  to-night.  One 
would  think  we  had  met  by  appointment,"  said  Alver- 
stone. 

Julia  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled ;  then,  after  a  pause, 
in  which  neither  spoke,  she  whispered :  "I  have  attended  a 
Midnight  Mass  each  Christmas  I  have  been  in  Paris, 
but" — she  leaned  closer  toward  him  and  held  up  her  little 
portemonnaie  before  her  mouth,  while  she  whispered  be- 

260 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

hind  it — "and  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  been  so  for- 
tunate as  to  have  a  gentleman  with  me." 

Then  she  felt  her  face  glow  richly,  for  Alverstone 
had  glanced  at  her  very  abruptly,  and  she  feared  from  his 
motion  that  she  had  said  more  than  he  had  expected  her 
to  say. 

"I  wish  you  would  allow  me  the  right  to  be  with  you 
— by  your  side — every  Christmas  eve  in  our  future,"  he 
answered.  Then  he  leaned  closer  toward  Julia  and  said, 
in  continuation :  "Be  my  bride.  Answer  yes.  Will  you?" 

The  corners  of  Julia's  mouth  drew  back  so  sweetly 
that  Cupid  would  have  lingered  in  admiration  were  he 
not  at  this  instant  in  most  strenuous  action ;  but  she  spoke 
no  reply  to  the  words  of  Alverstone,  nor  did  she  look  at 
him.  A  pallor  now  took  the  place  which  an  instant  before 
had  glowed  in  the  warmth  of  loving  confusion;  but, 
though  she  spoke  not,  he  had  been  pleased  with  the 
thought  which  he  knew  held  her. 

Then  there  was  a  silence  for  some  time,  and  each 
gave  attention  to  the  service,  when  suddenly  he  addressed 
Julia  with  the  remark:  "I  thought  you  were  at  the 
reveillon  at  Madame  Nitolsk's." 

"Oh,  no,"  replied  Julia;  "Madame  Nitolsk's  little 
child,  Adino,  was  very  ill  yesterday  afternoon." 

Now  all  singing  and  chanting  had  ceased,  but  peal  on 
peal  from  the  organ  loft  rolled  in  sublime  swellings  of 
the  glorious  music. 

Julia,  sitting  beside  Alverstone,  under  the  spell  of  this 
divine  in  the  beautiful  of  organ  music,  found  herself 
drawn  closer  and  closer  within  the  loving  bond  which 
seals  two  happy  hearts;  she  found  herself  experiencing 
the  loneliness  of  her  condition  without — without  him  in 
her  life — in  close,  quick  touch  with  every  day  of  her  fu- 
ture. Her  art — ah!  her  art!  what  had  she  to  do  with 
art  when  it  was  placed  in  the  balance  and  against  an 

261 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

affair  of  the  heart — an  affair  of  life  or  death?  For  with- 
out Alverstone  life  were  a  failure,  and  to  her  failure 
meant  death.  While  with  him  she  could  see  her  future, 
bright,  beautiful  and  useful  to  the  fullest  extent  possible. 
Art — dear,  dear,  beautiful  art  of  song  faded  far  off — 
adown  a  long  vista — ever  diminishing  to  the  point  of  van- 
ishing. Yet  she  cared  not.  The  Maestro  Novara's  wish- 
es were  not  even  favored  with  a  passing  thought;  and 
consideration  of  Madame  Cinati's  opinions  upon  the  mat- 
ter were  in  company  with  thoughts  of  Maestro  Novara — 
forgotten.  In  fact,  she  scarcely  saw  anything  but  the 
splendid  young  man  at  her  side,  and  she  heard  little  now 
but  the  delicious  melody  contained  in  the  words:  ''Be 
my  bride.  Answer  yes.  Will  you?" 

No  music  ever  written  by  any  of  the  inspired  writers 
could  equal  the  beauty  of  these  seven  words  just  spoken 
by  Hampton  Alverstone  to  Julia  Pembroke. 

She  urged  upon  herself  that  there  was  nothing  want- 
ing in  this  man,  who  would  be  her  choice  among  a  mil- 
lion. She  knew  he  was  her  ideal.  She  might  not  in  a 
lifetime  again  know  such  a  man  and  in  such  a  relation  to 
her.  She  raised  her  head  and  turned  half  toward  him, 
but  did  not  look  at  him.  She  wanted  to  speak,  but  some- 
thing, seemingly  in  the  air,  disturbed  her.  She  struggled 
desperately  within  herself  for  freedom  from  the  grasp 
•  of  that  terrible  something.  Finally,  she  turned  and  looked 
up  at  Alverstone,  when  she  thought  she  felt  the  air 
around  her  clear. 

But  soon  again  came  the  giddy  desire.  She  seemed 
to  lean  toward  him ;  she  felt  herself  in  truth  inclining  her 
body  toward  him,  and  she  knew  that  she  was  not  at  all 
annoyed  by  the  sensation.  On  the  contrary,  she  thought 
it  to  be  her  right,  if  she  wished  to  do  so,  for  was  not  he 
her  husband,  if  only  a  very  short  ceremony  were  per- 
formed! And  were  not  the  ceremony  easily  performed, 

262 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

if  only  she  would  promise — if  only  she  would  pronounce 
the  monosyllabic  word,  in  answer  to  his  suit  for  her  hand 
in  marriage?  He  was  her  fellow-countryman,  and  they 
were  of  the  same  social  rank  in  the  home-land,  and  they 
loved;  and  if  only  she  would  answer,,  they  were  the 
founders  of  a  new  home — if  only  she  would  answer 
"yes."  She  believed  she  would  do  so.  How  could  she 
ever  master  that  overwhelming  desire  always  to  have 
him  by  her  side?  No,  she  could  not  do  it.  She  could 
live  without  song,  but  she  could  not  live  without  this 
man — this  man  who  had  offered  her  his  fortune,  his  posi- 
tion, his  name;  but,  best  of  all,  his  love — the  love  of  a 
man  of  sterling  worth.  And  he  loved  her  for  herself — 
he  knew  nothing  of  her  money — so  he  loved  her  for  her- 
self— herself  alone.  And  she  was  sure  that  his  wealth 
had  never  influenced  her  in  the  least,  for  she  was  wise, 
and  knew  that  the  lyric  soprano  who  was  finishing  with 
Maestro  Novara  would  have  much  money — far,  far  more 
than  she  could  possibly  use.  And  so  she  was  not  forced 
to  marry  for  money — it  was  love — pure  love— this  she 
knew. 

Here  Julia  awoke  from  her  love  dream,  for  there 
floated  out  upon  the  air — soaring  far  up  into  the  utter- 
most heights  of  the  magnificent  edifice — filling  all  space 
within  and  thrilling  the  worshiping  souls  with  its  blessed 
truths,  told  in  a  setting  of  richest  melody:  "Minuit, 
Chretien  c'est  I'heure  solennelle  Ou  I'homme  Dieu  de- 
scendit  jusqu'a  nous."  The  rich  tones  of  the  great  bary- 
tone of  the  Opera  sounded  forth  from  the  choir  like  the 
call  from  a  sublime  clarion. 

He  was  praising  his  Master  with  his  God-given  tal- 
ent, for  no  one  who  heard  him  on  that  Holy  eve  could 
have  thought  him  other  than  inspired  in  the  singing  of 
the  sacred  song. 

263 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

Julia's  face  was  instantly  transformed.  Not  a  trace 
of  the  power  of  undying  love  for  the  man  at  her  side 
remained,  and  she  seemed  a  glorified  saint  sitting  there 
and  waiting  for  her  transfiguration. 

"Ah!"  she  thought;  "there  is  the  secret  of  my  suffer- 
ing. This  prelude,  to  which  I  gave  no  heed,  but  which 
bore  in  upon  me — in  through  my  unconsciousness — in 
upon  my  delirium  of  joy — this  prelude  to  my  dear  dead 
father's  song."  She  moaned  the  last  two  words,  and  an 
accompanying  tear  gathered  and  overflowed  upon  her 
cheek,  then  another  and  another  chased  in  such  quick 
succession  that  she  put  up  her  soft  kerchief  and  caught 
them  before  they  had  time  to  tell  their  tale  of  sad  mem- 
ories. The  reactionary  force  of  the  regretful  thought 
that  in  her  love-reverie  she  could  be  mute  to  that  favorite 
song  of  her  dear  departed  father  would  not  pass  without 
first  swaying  an  emotion  of  tender,  filial  devotion  to  his 
memory;  for  Bertram  Pembroke  had  loved  to  sing  this 
song,  and  it  had  been  Julia's  happiest  hour  when  she  had 
played  an  easy  accompaniment  to  his  singing  of  it. 

And  to-night  she  had  heard  no  music  except  the  mel- 
ody of  her  love,  which  ran  to  the  accompaniment — the 
love  of  Alverstone.  In  this  state  of  ecstatic  bliss  how 
was  she  to  know  that  the  organ  had  taken  up  the  prelude 
to  that  beautiful  Christmas  hymn — "Noel"?  Oh!  fatal 
hour !  In  these  sweeping  recollections  of  her  father's  last 
night  upon  earth.  "Darling,  darling  papa,"  she  thought ; 
"I  shall  not  forget  what  you  told  me  of  my  dear  moth- 
er's wishes.  I  am  a  singer,  papa,  and  I  will  sing." 

Almost  simultaneously  with  the  thought,  she  turned 
to  Alverstone  and  said,  quietly  and  kindly:  "Mr.  Alver- 
stone, I  can  not  marry  any  one.  If  I  had  not  come  to 
this  decision  long  before  now,  I  am  sure  that  I  should 
be  happy  to  become  your  wife ;  but  I  am  married  to  my 
art,  and  can  not  accept  an  offer  in  marriage."  Unshed 

264 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

tears  in  her  eyes  were  visible  to  Alverstone,  and  he  be- 
lieved what  she  said. 

He  had  been  listening  to  the  singing  of  "Noel''  with 
much  interest  and  delight,  for  he  was  at  rest — he  was  so 
sure  that  Julia  would  answer  in  the  affirmative.  He  knew 
her  to  be  incapable  of  trifling,  and  he  was  certain,  that 
smile  she  had  given  when  last  she  had  turned  her  eyes 
upon  him  meant  peace  to  his  love-sick  soul ;  so  that  when 
she  had  turned  and  had  given  her  answer  in  the  negative, 
he  was  for  a  time  hopelessly  lost  in  confusion. 

But  he  quickly  recovered  his  wonted  equanimity  of 
spirits,  and,  smiling  kindly  upon  her,  said:  "Very  well, 
Miss  Pembroke;  I  am  glad,  however,  to  know  that  I 
have  no  rival  but  your  song,  and  when  you  tire  of  my 
rival  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  forgotten.  I  shall  love  you 
always — always." 

Julia  smiled,  and  the  smile  lit  her  face  and  eyes  alike. 
Alverstone  had  learned  to  love  this  smile,  for  its  own  sake 
as  well  as  for  the  reason  that  it  was  representative  of 
the  thought — the  living  part — of  the  woman  whom  he 
had  loved  the  instant  his  eyes  had  fallen  upon  her  and 
whom  he  had  loved  every  instant  of  his  life  since. 

Then  she  spoke  and  said:  "Thank  you;  I  am  sure 
that  I  love  you  equally  well." 

Alverstone  sat  very  still  for  some  moments  after 
Julia's  reply  to  his  little  speech  of  acceptance  of  her  final 
decision.  Then  he  felt  himself  growing  dizzy — the  Altar, 
its  candles,  the  moving  priests  in  front  of  it — all  were 
growing  indistinct.  He  thought  he  had  become  faint. 
He  bent  toward  Julia  and  said:  "I  am  very  sorry,  Miss 
Pembroke,  but  I  find  I  must  leave  you." 

"Ah!  indeed!"  replied  Julia;  "I  should  like  you  to 
remain.  A  Merry  Christmas  to  you,  Mr.  Alverstone." 

265 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Pembroke ;  the  protection  of  all  the 
spirits  of  Christmas  go  with  you,  and  may  only  happi- 
ness attend  you." 

Julia  smiled  again,  but  Alverstone  saw  it  not,  for  he 
was  very  dizzy;  and,  though  he  looked  at  her,  her  face 
was  not  distinct.  In  fact,  he  would  not  have  known  her. 
After  the  exhange  of  good  nights  he  went  toward  the 
door. 

The  song  went  on  in  an  almost  martial  rhythm : 

"Le  monde  entier  tressaille  d'esperance." 

Before  reaching  the  door  Alverstone  was  forced  to 
stand  aside  and  wait  the  passing  of  a  number  of  persons 
at  that  moment  coming  into  the  church.  While  he  waited 
the  cool,  fresh  air  coming  in  at  the  open  door  revived 
him,  and  he  felt  the  faintness  pass.  He  turned  and  looked 
back  at  Julia,  for  from  his  position  he  could  see  more 
than  half  of  her  face,  and  it  was  worth  his  while  to  stop 
and  look.  Though  the  people  entering  the  church  had 
passed  on,  and  he  could  have  gone  out,  he  had  forgotten 
to  move,  or  else  he  preferred  to  stay. 

Julia,  all  unconscious  of  anything  but  the  song  then 
singing,  had  given  herself  up  to  the  sentiment  therein  con- 
tained— that  sacred  song- — sacred  because  it  told  so 
sweetly  the  story  of  God's  gift  to  man,  and  sacred  be- 
cause it  was  a  memory  of  her  father.  How  could  her 
face  wear  other  than  an  expression  celestial  when  all 
within  her  soul  was  in  communion  with  her  dead  father — 
her  dead  mother — her  beloved  grandmother  ?  There,  too, 
was  her  Savior,  before  Whose  throne,  in  the  heaven  of  her 
belief,  she  saw  the  group  of  her  dear  dead  ones  adoring. 
Yes,  there  was  surely  a  halo  surrounding  Julia  Pembroke 
as  she  sat  within  that  church  and  held  this  sweet  com- 
munion with  the  saints  above. 

Alverstone  saw  it  and  felt  the  truth — that  he  loved  a 
very  superior  kind  of  woman. 

266 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"Noel!  Noel!  void  le  Redempteur,"  went  on  climbing 
to  the  heights  in  the  climax. 

Alverstone  thought  Julia  no  longer  in  the  flesh.  He 
was  glad  that  he  had  gone  from  her  side,  if  only  at  a 
distance  he  was  permitted  to  behold  this  transcendent 
beauty. 

A  number  of  persons  who  had  just  entered  filled  the 
seat  behind  Julia,  and  now  Alverstone  could  no  longer 
see  her  face,  so  he  went  out  and  away  from  the  most 
impressive  scene  of  his  life.  He  was  not  entirely  free 
from  a  feeling  of  disappointment  at  failure  to  win  the  con- 
sent of  Julia  to  become  his  bride,  but  he  was  yet  happy  in 
the  knowledge  that  she  would  marry  him  if  she  ever  mar- 
ried any  one ;  and,  too,  he  had  only  her  career  for  a  rival 
— happy  thought— happy  thought. 

He  knew  that  the  word  of  a  gentlewoman  of  his  na- 
tive land  was  sacred  as  her  honor,  and  that  when  to  this 
gentility  was  added  integrity  of  will  and  purpose,  implicit 
confidence  might  be  reposed  therein. 

When  Julia  stepped  from  her  cab  at  the  entrance  of 
her  apartment  house  it  was  a  quarter  of  the  second  hour 
of  Christmas  morn.  The  driver  was  kind,  and  for  the 
small  gratuity,  which  Julia  never  failed  to  give,  he  showed 
his  gratitude  by  descending  from  his  high-  little  seat  to 
ring  the  bell  three  times,  as  Julia  had  directed — three 
rings  being  the  number  by  which  the  concierge  should 
know  it  was  Miss  Pembroke  who  rang.  Julia  was  per- 
mitted the  use  of  the  cab  until  the  door  of  the  house 
opened,  which  was  immediately  after  'the  ringing;  but 
sometimes  it  was  not  so  soon,  for  then  the  concierge 
slept  sounder  than  usual. 

As  the  ponderous  door  swung  to  again  Julia  went  to 
the  spot  where  the  concierge  always  put  her  key,  if  Julia 
was  returning  from  opera  or  other  affairs  after  ten 

267 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

o'clock,  which  was  the  hour  for  the  putting  out  of  lights 
in  the  corridor  and  halls.  She  saw  a  light  in  the  lodge  of 
the  concierge,  and,  thinking  this  signified  illness,  her  first 
impulse  was  to  make  inquiry  if  anything  unusual  had 
happened;  but  again  she  thought  it  partook  of  the  curi- 
ous, so  she  went  on  to  get  her  key.  It  was  not  there., 
She  flashed  her  electric  light  around,  thinking  it  might 
have  fallen  upon  the  ground,  but  it  was  not  there.  Then 
she  went  toward  the  lodge  door,  glad  that  she  had  an 
excuse  to  speak  with  the  inmates  before  she  went  up- 
stairs. At  the  same  instant  she  had  turned,  the  concierge 
opened  the  door  and  came  out.  She  handed  Julia  the 
key,  saying:  "Pardon,  Mademoiselle;  I  forgot  to  put  out 
the  key." 

Julia  saw  by  the  light  of  the  lodge  that  her  face 
was  swollen  from  passionate  weeping,  but  the  concierge 
quickly  turned  her  back,  evidently  with  the  desire  to  hide 
her  face,  and  Julia  hesitated  to  intrude  upon  her  afflic- 
tion. She  took  her  key  and  started  to  go  upstairs.  Then 
a  flood  of  golden  meaning  of  this  night — the  sentiments 
of  Christmas  eve — filled  her  soul,  as  with  a  burst  of  daz- 
zling sunshine;  all  earthly  sentiment  was  gone  as  shad- 
ows before  the  radiance  of  brilliant  glory  of  a  summer's 
sun. 

She  turned  and  asked:  "Is  any  one  ill?" 

"Oh,  no,  Mademoiselle ;  but  I  have  lost  two  hundred 
francs,  and  I  must  replace  them  or  go  to  prison.  It  is 
rental  I  had  collected  from  the  lodgers.  It  must  have 
dropped  on  the  stairway,  for  I  can  not  find  it  in  the 
lodge,  and,  Mademoiselle,  I  must  go  to  prison  if  I  do 
not  get  it.  Pierre,  my  son,  tried  to  borrow  it ;  but  even 
the  priest,  our  only  helper,  could  not  aid  us — he  has  no 
money  at  all,  he  says." 

She  had"  turned  on  a  small  electric  light  near  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  and  Julia  could  see  that  she  was  almost 

268 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

distracted  in  her  grief.  Julia  could  not  interrupt  the 
volubility  with  which  she  had  delivered  herself  of  this 
torrent  of  woe.  The  young  American  singer  could  not 
witness  anguish  and  offer  no  means  of  alleviation,  on 
this  especial  occasion,  under  the  sweet  influence  of  her 
experience  at  Midnight  Mass,  where  she  had  enjoyed  not 
only  the  highest  of  earthly  sentiments,  but  where  she  had 
also  communed  so  intimately  with  joys  celestial  that  she 
had  seemed  to  be  entirely  absent  from  her  earthly  habita- 
tion— the  body. 

She  quickly  decided  on  a  plan.  She  had  listened  to 
the  story  of  the  grief-stricken  woman. 

"Stay  here  till  I  come  back." 

Almost  immediately  she  returned,  and,  standing  on 
the  second  step  from  the  bottom,  wHere  the  electric  light 
shone  full  upon  her,  the  concierge  thought  of  pictures  of 
angels,  and  well  she  might,  for  had  not  Julia — the  im- 
mortal part  of  Julia — been  that  night  where  only  the 
purified  may  hope  to  come?  Had  she  not  been  with  the 
saints  in  Paradise,  and  was  she  not  now  performing  an 
act,  the  outgrowth  of  those  most  beautiful  sentiments — 
the  sentiments  of  the  teachings  of  her  Savior,  in  Whom 
she  trusted? 

"Here,"  said  Julia,  holding  out  her  right  hand,  with 
the  back  upward  and  the  fingers  closed  tightly  over  some- 
thing hidden  within. 

But  the  concierge  only  looked  at  her  in  bewilderment 
and  in  saddest  dejection. 

Then  Julia  bent  forward,  and,  putting  out  her  left 
hand,  said:  "Give  me  your  hand." 

The  woman  timidly  lifted  up  her  right  hand,  and 
Julia,  taking  it,  put  the  treasure,  hidden  in  her  own  right 
hand,  into  it. 

"There,"  she  said,  closing  the  fingers  of  the  concierge 
over  it;  "there  is  American  gold.  Take  it  to  the  pro- 

269 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

prietor's  agent  and  he  will  know.  It  is  more  than  two 
hundred  francs.  This  will  pay  your  two  hundred  francs 
due  him,  and  he  will  give  you  back  some  money." 

The  concierge  looked  from  the  two  bright  American 
pieces  to  the  beaming  face  of  her  savior,  for  Julia  had 
saved  her  from  the  prison — and  in  this  was  her  savior. 
On  that  blessed  night  the  concierge  was  made  doubly 
blessed — blessed  for  the  gift  of  the  Savior — the  Dove  of 
Peace — Who  had  redeemed  her  soul,  and  blessed  for  the 
gift  of  two  pieces  of  American  gold — two  double  eagles — 
which  redeemed  her  body. 

Julia  had  kept  this  little  bag  of  gold,  which  had  been 
given  her  by  her  father  on  their  last  evening  together, 
for  Madame  Cinati  had  asked  her  to  do  so;  at  least  she 
had  asked  Julia  to  draw  upon  her  bank  account,  at  Credit 
Lyonnaxis. 

The  concierge  clasped  her  hands  tightly  and  prayed 
a  sincere  prayer  for  Julia — for  her  health — for  her  suc- 
cess— and  especially  did  she  invoke  all  the  saints  of  her 
calendar  to  watch  over  Miss  Pembroke  and  to  keep  her 
from  all  harm. 

As  Julia  was  making  the  turn  at  the  first  landing  on 
her  way  to  her  apartment,  she  looked  down  at  the  pray- 
ing figure  which  knelt  in  humble  supplication,  in  thankful 
supplication,  and  smiled  good  night.  Then  she  went  up 
to  her  apartment  on  the  second  floor. 

Some  time  after  Julia  had  retired  she  was  awakened 
by  strains  of  music.  She  heard  the  music,  but  a  lassi- 
tude prevented  her  having  full  control  of  her  powers. 
She  tried  to  think,  but  she  could  not  think  well.  She  told 
herself  it  was  only  the  heavy  sleep  after  the  nervous 
strain  of  the  eventful  night.  Then  she  thought  the  music 
sounded  clearer  than  was  usual.  She  wondered  if  she 
could  have  left  the  casement  window  ajar.  She  tried  to 
rise  and  go  to  see  if  she  had  neglected  to  secure  the 

270 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

knob,  but  her  body  refused  to  obey  her  will.  Then  she 
felt  thoroughly  aroused  in  her  mind,  but  still  her  body 
remained  motionless.  Again  the  stupor  seized  her,  but 
now  she  knew  that  she  must  rise  or  succumb  to  its 
treacherous  embrace.  She  continued  her  endeavors  to 
move,  until  by  sheer  force  of  will  alone  she  succeeded  in 
getting  out  of  bed  and  staggering  to  the  window.  When 
near  it  her  foot  slipped  on  something — it  was  the  bruised 
rose  petals,  swept  by  the  mantilla  of  the  late  intruder 
and  deposited  just  upon  the  spot  where  Julia  had  set 
down  her  foot  in  staggering  to  the  window — and  she 
found  herself  falling. 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  caught  at  the  sofa  near  the 
window  and  fell  among  the  cushions,  a  number  of  which 
were  upon  the  end  where  her  head  struck.  One  arm 
hung  over  the  sofa  and  almost  closed  the  window,  which 
had  been  pushed  open  by  the  night  breezes  wafted  in  at 
the  casement,  left  unlocked  by  mistake. 

Julia  had  heard  the  pretty  music — she  had  heard  that 
beautiful  serenade,  "Mattinata,"  and  after  the  serenade, 
Chopin's  Nocturne,  Opus  9 — they  were  both  favorite  se- 
lections of  hers,  and,  whether  meant  for  her  or  not,  she 
loved  to  listen  to  them. 

And  who  is  there  that  would  not  love  such  music, 
played  upon  a  violin,  a  flute  and  a  beautiful  harp — upon 
the  still  mght  air? 

For  a  time,  from  her  place  upon  the  sofa,  she  could 
hear  the  serenade,  but  it  grew  fainter  and  fainter;  then 
clouds  floated  all  about  her — soft,  fleecy,  white  clouds, 
and  the  nocturne  seemed  to  be  sung  by  many  thousand's 
of  seraphic  voices,  far  off.  Soon  she  felt  herself  becom- 
ing an  infinitesimally  small  chord,  as  it  were — she  had 
lost  all  sensation,  and  was  dead  except  for  very  slight 
sensations  in  the  brain  and  in  the  spinal  cord,  and  this 

271 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

condition  remained  clear  to  her  'but  for  a  short  time, 
when  she  lapsed  into  utter  unconsciousness. 

Though  the  beautiful  harp  had  begun  its  solo  in  a 
third  number  of  the  serenade,  and  the  dulcet  music  went 
on,  Julia  Pembroke  heard  it  not.  It  was  like  the  great 
cataract,  Niagara,  which  made  no  sound  until  there  were 
ears  to  hear  it. 


272 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

About  ten  o'clock  Christmas  morning  there  was  a 
loud  pounding  at  the  right-hand  door  on  the  second  floor 
of  the  apartment  building  on  the  Rue  La  Perouse. 

One  would  naturally  suppose  that  a  door  of  wood 
must  quickly  give  way  before  such  ponderous  strokes  of 
the  hammer,  brought  down  upon  the  chisel  with  which 
the  locksmith  was  endeavoring  to  procure  an  entrance  to 
the  apartment  behind  those  doors,  but  they  were  made 
of  the  strong  wood  from  the  trees  grown  in  the  forests 
of  Auvergne,  and  doors  made  of  such  wood  are  not  to 
be  driven  into  defeat  of  the  purpose  for  which  they  were 
fashioned.  The  doors  were  paneled,  and  the  locks  and 
hinges  were  of  the  hardest  of  metals,  and  not  at  all  likely 
to  fail  in  their  purpose  unless  the  cruel  file  was  set  to 
work  upon  them. 

Of  course,  a  cutting  instrument  will  always  make  its 
way  through  the  hardest  substance,  no  difference  how 
adamantine  its  properties  of  resistance. 

Before  this  house  had  become  a  place  for  homes  of 
those  who  wished  to  rent,  it  had  been  the  private 
palace  of  the  Duquesa  de  la  Tarazana.  This  great  lady 
had  held  a  real  court,  over  the  doings  of  which  she  had 
presided  with  grace  and  dignity,  until  one  sad  evening 
when  she  had  eaten  freely  of  that  favorite  French  dish — 
cold  fish — she  had  taken  ill  and  suddenly  died. 

This  entire  building  was  unlike  other  apartment 
houses,  for  it  had  been  built  by  this  Duchess,  and  was  a 
quasi-mediaeval  palace,  fully  equipped  throughout  as 
were  the  ancient  fortresses. 

273 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

"Take  off  the  lock.  No  difference  what  Monsieur 
Monte  will  say.  It  is  a  life." 

It  was  Madame  Cinati's  voice,  sweet,  clear,  but  im- 
perious. 

Then  the  regular  sound  of  the  unloosing  of  screws 
began.  It  was,  without  doubt,  a  locksmith,  for  the  turn 
screw  worked  steadily  and  the  screw  did  not  fall  to  the 
ground,  as  it  always  does  if  the  workman  is  not  well 
versed  in  the  secret  deftness  of  his  trade. 

Above  the  din  and  rattle  of  the  workman's  prying, 
twisting,  hammering,  pushing  and  lifting  of  the  parts 
concerned  in  gaining  admittance  to  the  apartment  wherein 
was  the  American  singer,  the  concierge's  voice  was 
heard,  but  the  words  were  inaudible,  for  she  seemed 
speaking  to  herself. 

Madame  Cinati's  clearly  enunciated  words  came  float- 
ing out  over  the  noise,  with  a  distinctness  as  beautiful 
as  they  were  imperious. 

"Did  you  see  Miss  Pembroke  last  night?"  she  asked 
of  the  concierge. 

"Ah !  oui,  Madame ;  I  talked  with  her  when  she  came 
in  from  the  Midnight  Mass,"  half  chattered  the  fright- 
ened concierge,  in  answer. 

"Had  she  dined  out?" 

"No,  Madame,  I  think  not.  She  said  nothing  of  it 
to  me." 

"Did  she  look  ill  when  you  gave  her  the  key?" 

"Oh!  no,  Madame;  she  looked  beautiful  and  smiled 
like  the  angels  in  Saint  Cecilia's  picture." 

"Pardon,  Madame,"  broke  in  the  locksmith ;  "there  is 
an  inside  bolt.  Shall  I  file  it?" 

"Is  that  the  only  way?"  she  asked,  in  reply. 

"Yes,  that  is  the  only  way." 

"Can  not  you  find  a  quicker  method?  Mademoiselle 
may  die  while  we  are  working." 

274 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

"No,  Madame,  there  is  only  this  way,  unless  you  allow 
me  to  cut  a  hole  in  the  panel  to  put  my  hand  in  at  and 
pull  open  the  inside  bolt." 

"Do  as  you  think  is  the  best  and  quickest,"  said 
Madame  Cinati ;  "I'll  see  that  all  losses  are  made  good." 

"I  would  file  the  bolts,"  said  the  locksmith. 

"Very  well,"  replied  Madame  Cinati. 

The  workman  took  up  the  file  and  worked  vigorously. 
In  a  very  short  time  the  bolt  was  cut  in  two  and  the 
heavy  door  swung  in  upon  the  massive  hinges. 

Madame  Cinati  entered  first,  casting  her  glance  now 
here  and  now  there  around  the  room.  She  carried  a  large 
bundle,  neatly  wrapped,  and  hurriedly  put  it  upon  the 
sofa.  Then  with  much  alacrity  she  went  into  the  bou- 
doir. The  concierge,  whose  bearing  was  one  fearful  of 
finding  she  knew  not  what,  yet  certain  it  was  something 
of  a  direful  nature,  and  still  more  certain  it  concerned 
one  she  dearly  loved,  followed  Madame  Cinati.  Seeing 
no  one  in  the  boudoir,  Madame  Cinati  crossed  to  the  bed- 
room door  and  opened  it. 

"Mon  Dieu !  Julia  is  dead !"  she  exclaimed,  standing 
perfectly  still  just  inside  the  room,  and  her  hands  thrown 
up  in  horror. 

Julia,  clad  in  her  night-robe,  was  lying  among  the 
cushions  as  she  had  fallen  when  she  had  slipped  upon 
the  rose  petals.  Her  face  was  very  purple  and  the  golden 
hair  had  fallen  in  a  mass  around  it. 

"Oh,  Julia !  Julia !"  cried  Madame  Cinati,  taking  her 
by  the  shoulders  and  shaking  her  gently  at  first,  and  then 
more  forcibly,  until  in  her  anxiety  she  at  last  shook  her 
almost  fiercely.  But  Julia  gave  no  sign  of  conscious- 
ness ;  she  heard  nothing  whatever  of  the  anxious  friend's 
appeals  for  her  to  speak. 

275 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Madame  Cinati,  finding  that  she.  could  not  rouse  Julia, 
said :  "Go  for  the  doctor,  Dr.  Hertzborne — fetch  me  some 
wine,  concierge;  I'll  try  to  get  some  into  her  mouth." 

Suddenly  stopping,  on  hearing  nothing,  Madame  Cin- 
ati found  she  was  alone,  for  the  concierge  had  gone.  She 
arose,  and,  going  out  to  the  door,  saw  that  the  concierge 
was  literally  flying  down  the  steps.  She  returned  to  Julia, 
quite  sure  that  it  was  for  the  doctor  the  concierge  had 
gone ;  but  on  reentering  the  bedroom  from  the  fresh  air 
in  the  hall  she  wondered  why  she  had  not  before  noticed 
the  heaviness  of  the  atmosphere  within  the  room.  She 
went  directly  to  the  casement  window  and  opened  it 
wide.  The  cool,  fresh  air  now  swept  in,  as  the  sun  had 
done,  when  the  concierge  before  had  pushed  back  the 
heavy  curtains. 

Then  the  great  singer  knelt  down  by  Julia  and  con- 
tinued her  efforts  at  reviving  her. 

As  soon  as  the  concierge  had  seen  Julia  she  had  fled 
and  had  run  for  the  nearest  doctor.  She  had  not  found 
him,  but  she  had  left  an  order,  and  he  would  come  soon. 
She  had  hurriedly  returned  to  the  lodge  and  picked  up 
her  own  little  medicine  case  and  some  wine,  which  the 
frightened  mother-in-law  had  in  readiness  as  soon  as  her 
daughter  had  told  her,  and,  breathless,  the  concierge 
rushed  up  to  the  apartment  to  do  what  she  could. 

"Monsieur,  the  doctor,  will  come  soon,"  she  panted,  as 
she  rushed  into  the  room.  "I  brought  this  box  of  medi-: 
cine,  and  here  is  a  vinaigrette ;  it  may  help  to  revive  her. 
Oh!  but  she  has  not  moved,"  half  sobbed  the  concierge, 
as  she  bent  over  Julia  and  looked  into  her  face.  "I  fear 
she  may  never  come  to  again." 

"Well,  we  will  do  all  we  can.  What  have  you  in  the 
bottle?" 

"It  is  wine.  I  got  it  out  of  the  cellar.  It  is  very  good 
— the  finest,  Madame." 

276 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

While  saying  this  she  poured  out  some  wine  into  a 
glass. 

"Get  that  cup  on  the  mantel  and  put  the  wine  into 
it;  I  can  get  it  to  her  mouth  much  more  easily,"  said 
Madame  Cinati,  who  was  chafing  Julia's  hands  and  fore- 
head and  trying  to  arouse  her,  but  Julia  moved  not.  She 
took  the  cup  of  wine,  and,  lifting  Julia's  head,  tried  to  put 
it  between  her  lips. 

"Oh,  no!"  objected  the  concierge;  "Madame  can  not 
do  it  that  way.  I  will  show  Madame,  if  she  will  allow 
me." 

"How  ?"  asked  Madame  Cinati,  for  she  had  seen  that 
she  could  not  get  Julia's  mouth  open. 

"A  minute,  Madame,  if  you  please,"  said  the  con- 
cierge. She  left  the  room  and  soon  returned  with  a  sil- 
ver spoon,  which  she  put  into  the  cup,  saying  as  she  did 
so :  "I  will  open  Mademoiselle's  mouth  and  the  Madame 
will  put  in  very  little  sips  of  the  wine,  very,  very  little. 
It  will  trickle  down  her  throat  and  yet  not  strangle 
Mademoiselle." 

This  they  did,  until  a  teaspoonful  had  disappeared — • 
the  concierge  constantly  massaging  the  throat  and  mov- 
ing the  head  from  side  to  side  very  gently,  doing  all  in 
the  deft  manner  of  a  trained  nurse. 

"Here,  if  Madame  tries  this  salts,  I  know  it  will  be 
good." 

Madame  Cinati  took  the  bottle  and  placed  it  to  Julia's 
nostrils. 

"There,"  she  said;  "you  rub  her  hands  gently,  but 
firmly,  and  I'll  rub  her  face.  I  think  we  can  revive  her." 

After  some  minutes  of  persistent  effort  at  resusci- 
tation, Julia  turned  her  head  to  one  side. 

"Ah !  she  is  coming  back !"  cried  Madame  Cinati. 
"Julia !  Julia !"  she  said,  in  a  soft  exclamation.  She  spoke 
softly,  because  she  did  not  wish  to  excite  her. 

277 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Julia's  eyes  opened  slowly,  but  the  clear  blue  of  the 
eye 'was  lost  in  a  misty  haze  which  spread  before  it. 

"Ah !  —  Madame  —  Ci — nati."  she  said,  weakly,  with 
the  faintest  shadow  of  a  smile,  drawing  the  lips  apart, 
but  the  muscles  quickly  relaxed.  Instinctively  Julia  tried 
to  draw  together  her  gown,  which  was  low  at  the  neck 
and  open,  as  she  had  unfastened  it,  when  she  was  strug- 
gling with  her  depression  of  spirits  and  trying  to  fall 
asleep. 

"Julia !  Julia !  what  is  the  matter  ?    Are  you  ill  ?" 

"I  —  do  —  no — t know,"  she  answered  plain' 

tively,  while  her  eyes  opened  and  closed  wearily. 

"You  sent  for  the  doctor,  did  you  not?"  anxiously 
asked  Madame  Cinati,  as  she  turned  toward  the  concierge. 

"Ah,  oui,  Madame;  he  will  be  here  soon.  I  went  to 
five  doctors,  and  he  was  the  only  one  I  could  find.  His 
maid  said  that  he  would  return  soon  and  that  she  would 
tell  him  to  come  over  at  once." 

"Give  me  the  cup,"  said  Madame  Cinati  to  the  con- 
cierge. "Here,  Julia,  you  must  not  close  your  eyes  and 
go  to  sleep  again.  Come,  rouse  yourself,"  she  added,  in 
tones, very  urgent  and  quite  strongly  vocalized. 

Julia  could  not  take  the  wine;  in  fact,  she  was  too 
weak  to  do  anything  at  all,  so  the  concierge  raised  her 
head  and  held  it  carefully  supported,  until  Madame  Cin- 
ati gave  her  several  teaspoons  of  the  strong,  old  wine. 
Julia  offered  no  resistance,  for  she  had  regained  con- 
sciousness enough  to  know  that  she  must  obey  Madame 
Cinati  or  again  drop  into  unconsciousness. 

The  deadly  poison  from  the  roses  had  nearly  done 
the  work  it  never  fails  to  do  when  sent  out  by  a  dia- 
bolical character,  who  passes  for  a  student  of  the  nature 
and  resultant  of  drugs — especially  of  the  drugs  known 
as  narcotics. 

278 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

Had  Julia  fallen  with  her  head  toward  the  open  win- 
dow she  would  have  breathed  more  fresh  air;  as  it  was, 
she  had  fallen  with  her  head  away  from  the  window,  and, 
consequently,  breathed  only  the  air  which  had  circulated 
through  the  room.  No  doubt  she  had  died  from  the  pois- 
onous fumes  had  not  the  fresh  air  from  the  window 
slightly  ajar  kept  wafting  fresh  draughts  of  life-sustain- 
ing oxygen  into  the  chamber,  which  otherwise  had  been 
the  death  chamber  of  her  whom  the  Savior  looked  upon 
as  a  disseminator  of  the  truths  of  His  message  to  His 
wayfaring  children  of  the  world,  wherein  had  been 
placed  Julia  Pembroke  on  a  happy  Christmas  morning, 
twenty-two  years  before. 

Many  a  noble  Christian  act  had  been  suddenly  shut 
out  from  the  scenes  of  life  had  the  cloaked  stranger,  who 
placed  the  flowers  within  the  room,  taken  greater  pains 
to  fasten  tightly  the  knob  when  closing  the  casement  win- 
dow. 

The  black  angel,  or  angel  of  darkness,  which  attended 
the  creature  upon  this  errand  into  the  abode  of  the  pure 
child  of  God  was  defeated  in  his  purpose  by  the  angel 
of  Life,  whose  mission  upon  earth  was  the  protection  of 
the  child  of  Light,  who  began  each  day  of  her  life  with  a 
prayer  for  protection,  and  who,  each  night,  placed  herself 
under  the  protection  of  the  Being  in  Whom  she  trusted 
implicitly.  She  was  not  of  those  who  wildly  pray  for 
help,  but  do  nothing  for  themselves — oppositely,  she  first 
did  everything  she  might  do,  then  trusted  fully. 

"How  early  you  have  come,"  said  Julia,  who  now 
seemed  able  to  speak,  but  not  so  fully  recovered  as  to  be 
able  to  open  her  eyes.  Then  murmuring  something  inau- 
dible, a  smile  played  about  the  delicate  mouth.  Soon  the 
lips  half  parted,  and  she  went  on :  "You  heard  the  music?'' 

"Oh !  Holy  Virgin !"  ejaculated  the  concierge,  clasp- 

279 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

ing  and  unclasping  her  hands  repeatedly ;  "the  poor  dar- 
ling is  delirious." 

"No  —  I  —  am  —  not  —  delirious,"  said  Julia,  brok- 
enly. "You  heard  —  the  —  beauti — ful  —  a  harp  —  a 
—  vi — o — lin  —  and" — 

She  turned  appealing  eyes  upon  Madame  Cinati,  who 
now  stood  up  and  said:  "Go  quick  for  some  other  phy- 
sician. Tell  him  Madame  Cinati  will  pay  him  well  for 
coming  at  once — any  doctor  you  may  find." 

"They  were  playing  when  you  came  in,  for — they  only 
stopped  a  few.  minutes  —  ago,"  said  Julia,  very  slowly. 

"Yes,  yes,  Madame,  I  will  go  at  once,"  replied  the 
concierge ;  and  she  left  the  room. 

As  Madame  Cinati  stood  there,  seemingly  at  a  loss 
to  know  what  more  to  do  before  the  coming  of  the  doc- 
tor, she  was  certainly  a  beautiful  woman,  in  her  magnifi- 
cent velvet  costume,  with  its  long  train;  the  beautiful 
royal  ermine  stole;  the  large  black  velvet  hat,  covered 
with  glossy  black  plumes,  arranged  as  only  the  artists 
on  Rue  de  la  Paix  know  how  to  arrange  them ;  her  long 
black  kid  gloves  pulled  half  way  to  the  elbow,  which  'she 
had  kept  on,  only  withdrawing  the  hand  enough  to  allow 
her  using  her  bare  hands  upon  Julia.  She  walked  across 
the  room  twice,  then  returned  to  Julia  and  stood  looking 
down  at  her,  her  face  truly  sad. 

"You  came  to  wish  me  a  Merry  Christmas,"  Julia 
spoke  measuredly  and  without  opening  her  eyes.  "So 
kind  of  you." 

"Yes,  I  did,"  answered  Madame  Cinati,  putting  her 
ermine  stole  around  Julia's  shoulders,  for  Julia  was  try- 
ing to  rise,  and  the  air  of  the  room  was  cool  for  one  who 
had  been  among  the  pillows  as  had  Julia. 

At  last,  assisted  by  Madame  Cinati,  Julia  succeeded 
in  getting  upon  one  elbow,  and  the  concierge,  having  just 

280 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

returned,  brought  a  foot-stool,  and  together  they  placed 
her  so  that  she  was  in  a  sitting  posture. 

"Oh!  my  beautiful  Mademoiselle,"  softly  whispered 
the  concierge,  tearfully,  as  she  arranged  a  comfort  over 
Julia's  lap  and  around  her  feet,  "I  prayed  for  you  all 
night — I  could  not  sleep — I  was  so  happy — and  it  was 
you,  Mademoiselle,  that  made  me  so  happy.  Thanks  to 
God  you  are  getting  well." 

Julia  smiled  at  the  earnest  woman,  and  then  looked 
questioningly  at  Madame  Cinati.  A  shadow  of  fright 
was  visible  for  an  instant,  then  the  same  questioning  ap- 
peal. Her  eyes  did  not  weary  and  close  this  time;  but, 
instead,  grew  strangely  large  and  bright  as  she  lifted 
them  from  Madame  Cinati  to  fasten  them  upon  the  con- 
cierge with  the  same  questioning  appeal.  Then  the  steady 
light  of  reflection  shone  in  them,  and  she  looked  at  the 
open  window,  the  medicine  chest,  the  wine.  A  sense  of 
something  vaguely  entering  her  mind  seemed  seizing 
upon  her. 

She  pressed  the  palms  of  her  two  small  hands  against 
her  temples,  then  let  the  left  one  slip  down  arid  rest 
against  the  cheek,  while  the  other  fell  to  her  lap,  and  she 
slowly  looked  around  in  silence,  which  no  one  broke  until 
she  asked  in  a  weird,  scared  voice :  "Have  I  been  sick  ?" 

No  one  answered,  for  her  lips  remained  parted  and 
she  seemed  trying  to  say  more.  Madame  Cinati  was 
now  thoroughly  frightened,  for  she  thought  that  Julia 
had  sustained  a  stroke  of  paralysis;  but  she  remained 
quiet,  preferring  to  hear  Julia  speak  all  she  could,  if  this 
were  her  true  condition. 

After  a  time,  Julia  asked,  wonderingly  and  as  if  she 
were  sadly  confused :  "Have  I  been  unconscious  ?" 

While  saying  this  she  looked  steadily  at  the  hand" 
some  diva. 

281 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"Yes,  dear,"  replied  Madame  Cinati,  "you  have  been 
unconscious.  Do  you  remember  when  you  took  ill?"  she 
questioned,  anxiously. 

Jujia  made  no  answer,  but,  trembling  as  with  a  chill, 
she  huddled  back  into  the  cushions,  saying :  "I  am  cold — 
so  cold." 

"We  must  take  her  into  the  boudoir,"  said  Madame 
Cinati. 

Soon  Julia  found  herself  before  the  warm  fire  of  the 
salamcmdre  burning  brightly  in  her  boudoir,  and  Madame 
Cinati  had  closed  the  door  opening  into  the  bedchamber, 
which  had  well-nigh  been  the  death  chamber  of  the 
young  American  singer. 

Madame  Cinati  stood  beside  the  chair,  resting  .one 
hand  upon  its  high  back  and  looking  away  from  Julia, 
who  had  fastened  her  eyes  upon  the  prima  donna. 

Julia  saw  that  Madame  Cinati  was  lost  in  thought, 
so  did  not  at  once  put  the  question  she  would  like  to  ask; 
but  after  a  little  she  said:  "Have  you  been  here  long?" 

"Madame  Cinati  roused  herself,  and,  drawing  up  an 
armchair  close  to  Julia,  said:  "I  am  sure,  child,  that  I 
have  no  knowledge  of  what  has  befallen  you.  I  should 
like  to  know,  but  you  are  not  strong  yet,  and  I  do  not 
think  that  to  appease  my  curiosity  you  should  exert  your- 
self unduly  for  the  present.  Enough  to  know,  so  far, 
that  you  have  perfectly  regained  consciousness,  and  that 
you  are  not  seriously  ill." 

"Yes,  I  am  weak,"  sighed  Julia,  helplessly,  "and  I  am 
so  hungry. 

"Have  you  eaten  nothing  to-day  ?" 

"No,  not  since  last  night,  at  six  o'clock." 

"No.  breakfast,  child!  It  is  ten  o'clock  and  after. 
What  would  you  like  ?" 

282 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  what — I  feel  all  choked;  so  heavy 
in  my  chest — here — my  lungs  seem  to  be  too  big  for  the 
cavity,"  and  she  laid  her  hand  upon  her  chest. 

"Ah!"  said  Madame  Cinati,  thoughtfully,  and  she 
pressed  her  shapely  lips  so  tightly  that  a  small  blue  cir- 
cle formed  in  their  stead.  Just  then  the  concierge  opened 
the  door  of  the  bedroom.  "Please  bring  Mademoiselle 
Pembroke  some  breakfast,  at  once,"  said  Madame  Cinati. 

"Indeed  I  will,  and  I  want  to  do  anything  that  I  can 
do  for  Mademoiselle,"  replied  the  concierge. 

Julia,  who  was  looking  at  the  grateful  woman,  saw 
tears  gather  in  her  eyes.  She  smiled  and  said:  "Mar- 
guerite, I  am  better  now ;  I  shall  soon  be  entirely  well.  I 
shall  eat  heartily — sure." 

Then  Madame  Cinati  gave  a  detailed  order  for  the 
breakfast,  and  the  concierge  went  out. 

"Julia,"  began  Madame  Cinati,  "have  you  been  ill 
lately?" 

"On  the  contrary,  I  have  been  unusually  well." 

"Then  you  have  eaten  something  that  has  poisoned 
you.  Have  you  dined  out?" 

"No,  not  out ;  only  at  my  hotel." 

"They  sometimes  serve  cold  duck  there,  and  this  often 
causes  death,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know  it  does,"  responded  Julia;  "but  I  ate 
no  cold  meat  at  all  yesterday,  nor  last  night.  I  went 
to  Midnight  Mass  at  the  Madeleine.  I  felt  well  when  I 
retired,  and  I  knew  nothing  more  until  I  was  awakened 
by  the  sound  of  a  harp — oh !  it  was  so  beautiful !" 

A  slight  blush  bepainted  her  cheeks,  but  Madame 
Cinati  was  too  much  interested  to  notice  it. 

"I  went  to  the  window ;  it  was  ajar.  I  was  very  dizzy 
and  tried  to  steady  myself  as  best  I  could,  but  I  fell.  Then 
I  seemed  sinking  into  a  cloud,  airy  and  light.  After 
that  I  knew  nothing  until  you  waked  me." 

283 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Madame  Cinati  said  nothing  in  reply;  evidently 
she  was  thinking.  She  rose  and  left  the  boudoir,  going 
into  the  bedroom.  Julia  was  left  alone.  She  could  not 
think  connectedly.  Everything  presented  itself  in  an  odd 
way. 

Why  was  Madame  Cinati  here?  Why  had  Madame 
Cinati  waked  her?  Had  she  not  been  at  the  Midnight 
Mass?  Had  she  not  heard  that  beautiful  "Mattinata" 
on  the  harp  and  violin?  Maybe  she  had  been  dreaming? 
Maybe  she  was  still  in  the  dream  ?  She  put  out  her  hand 
and  touched  the  salamcmdre.  She  quickly  withdrew  her 
hand,  for  the  stove  was  hot.  No,  she  was  awake,  and  all 
that  had  happened  was  true,  and  she  was  not  on  the  cold 
stones  of  the  Madeleine,  thrilled  by  the  voice  of  the  only 
man  she  had  ever  loved.  She  blushed  at  the  thought 
of  her  weakness,  and  let  her  head  fall  back  into  the 
depths  of  the  billows  of  cushions  around  her. 

Instinctively  she  tried  to  hide  the  rich  blushes  which' 
chased  one  another  all  over  her  snow-white  throat  and 
whiter  face,  up  to  the  border  line  at  the  top  of  the  fore- 
head, where  they  hid  themselves  among  the  mass  of 
spun  gold  threads.  They  must  have  remained  there  for 
some  time,  hoping  to  scamper  back  over  the  ivory  face 
and  neck  again,  for  Julia's  face  was  a  study  in  lights 
and  shadows,  such  as  any  artist,  even  in  the  slightest 
advancement,  would  have  painted :  "A  maiden  busy  with 
thoughts  of  her  first,  true  love."  And,  too,  he  would  have 
put  there  lights  which  flickered  with  the  shadows  of  pain ; 
for  Julia  felt  keenly  the  bitter  desolation  she  must  face 
were  she  to  continue  deaf  to  the  entreaties  of  Hampton 
Alverstone. 

The  door  leading  into  the  boudoir  opened,  and  soon 
the  tray  of  good  things  was  set  upon  the  little  table  first 
pushed  up  to  the  side  of  Julia.  It  was  entirely  covered 
with  a  snowy  linen  tray-cloth.  Upon  it  were  found 

284 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Julia's  silver  spoons,  knives  and  forks,  her  own  dishes, 
which  were  of  the  most  exquisite  china — fragile  and 
dainty  to  a  fault — a  silver  pot  of  tea,  hot  and  cold  rolls, 
poached  eggs,  fresh,  sweet  butter,  delicious  grapes  of  the 
green  variety,  and  some  incredibly  thin  slices  of  hot 
toast — the  toast  in  a  silver  toast  dish  and  covered. 

Julia  looked  at  the  tray,  her  eyes  passing  from  one 
dish  to  another,  while  the  concierge  took  off  the  cover 
from  the  toast. 

"Give  me  toast  first,  please ;  it  looks  so  good." 

The  concierge  had  brought  Julia  this  kind  of  toast 
every  morning,  and  Julia  had  once  told  her  that  she  liked 
her  toast  very  thin.  She  had  not  meant  so  thin  as  this, 
but  it  was  always  served  delicately  as  if  it  were  for  a 
sick  person  instead  of  for  a  strong  American  girl,  who 
studied  all  day  and  ate  a  hearty  luncheon  at  twelve 
o'clock  and  a  heartier  dinner  at  six. 

"You  do  not  look  happy,  Marguerite,"  said  Julia, 
addressing  the  concierge  and  breaking  a  slice  of  toast. 

"No,  I  am  not  happy.  I  am  happy  that  you  are  well 
and  that  I  have  the  money  for  that  Monsieur ;  but,  Mad- 
emoiselle, I  can  not  be  happy  until  I  know  where  my 
darling  Pierre  is.  And,  Mademoiselle,  Pierre  is  not  all. 
I  must  confe&s  to  you  and  to  the  Madame  that  I  went  to 
Mass  last  night  and  left  mother  to  guard  the  door.  She 
told  me  just  now  that  while  I  was  at  Mass  a  lady  came 
to  the  lodge  door  and  asked  for  Miss  Pembroke.  Mother 
told  her  that  you  were  at  Mass.  Then  she  asked  mother 
if  she  might  put  a  present  she  had  for  you  into  your  room, 
and  that  she  would  return  in  the  morning  to  see  you.  I 
would  have  told  you  last  night  when  you  entered  if  I 
had  knqwn  it,  but  when  I  returned  from  Mass  the  en- 
trance door  was  open  a  little,  and  mother  was  asleep,  and 
now  she  tells  me  that  she  did  not  see  the  lady  go  out, 
and  I  suppose  that  the  lady  opened  the  door  and 

285 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

went  out  herself,  but  did  not  shut  the  big  door  behind 
her." 

All  this  the  concierge  said  quickly  and  without  paus- 
ing— spoke  as  one  would  have  done  at  the  confessional. 

"Did  she  give  no  name — no  card — no  letter?"  asked 
Julia. 

"Yes,  there  is  a  card,  and  she  told  mother  her  name 
was  Miss  White.  I  am  so  sorry  that  mother  let  her  into 
your  apartment;  but  mother  is  from  the  country,  Made- 
moiselle, and  not  used  to  city  people.  But,"  the  con- 
cierge went  on,  regretfully,  "I  thought  she  could  take 
my  place  for  the  time  of  the  Midnight  Mass,  for  then 
few  go  in  or  out  through  the  doors." 

Julia  was  astounded  at  the  statements  of  the  con- 
cierge, and  clasped  her  hands  quietly  upon  her  lap,  for 
at  this  moment  the  door  of  the  bedroom  opened  and 
Madame  Cinati  came  rushing  into  the  room,  evidently 
in  a  high  state  of  excitement. 

"Julia,  do  not  be  alarmed,  for  the  danger  is  passed; 
but  the  odor  from  these  roses  is  very  nauseating,  and, 
no  doubt,  it  was  these  caused  your  illness." 

In  her  hands  Madame  Cinati  held  the  vase  contain- 
ing the  roses,  but  she  turned  and  went  back  into  the  bed- 
room, put  down  the  vase,  came  out  and  shut  the  bed- 
room door. 

"Where  did  you  get  those  roses,  Julia  ?" 

"The  roses  I  bought  yesterday  on  Place  de  Wagram 
were  small — I  know  nothing  of  those  in  my  room." 

"There  are  no  other  roses  there,  nothing  but  Ameri- 
can Beauties,  Julia,"  and  Madame  Cinati  stood  per- 
plexed. "Julia,  something  is  wrong  with  those  roses." 

The  concierge  was  a  woman  of  quite  keen  intelli- 
gence, and  after  the  first  shock  of  speechless  horror 
which  she  experienced  from  the  sight  of  the  roses,  which 

286 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Julia  avowed  she  had  not  bought,  in  fact,  had  no  knowl- 
edge of,  she  instantaneously  divined  all. 

"Oh!  Madame!  this  is  all  my  fault;  do  forgive  me 
this  once,  and  I'll  never  again  leave  my  lodge." 

Then  she  told  Madame  Cinati  all  she  had  told  Julia 
about  the  midnight  visitor  to  the  apartment  of  Made- 
moiselle. 

"I  never  knew  a  Miss  White  in  America,"  said  Julia, 
when  the  concierge  had  finished. 

"Have  you  ever  known  any  one  by  that  name?" 
asked  Madame  Cinati. 

"No,  Madame  Cinati;  I  have  never  known  any  per- 
son, man  or  woman,  by  the  name  of  White." 

"Strange;  it  savors  of  something  irregular,  and  I 
think,"  said  Madame  Cinati,  with  darkening  counte- 
nance, "that  the  police  should  be  notified  of  the  affair, 
just  as  it  is — the  mysterious  roses — the  disappearance  of 
your  roses — the  American  Beauties  found  in  your  room — 
their  noxious  odor — your  stupor" — 

"Oh !  Madame !  do  forgive  me !  do  not  tell  the  police ! 
Monsieur  the  proprietor  will  send  me  away.  I  know  it 
was  dreadfully  careless !  I  beg  of  you,  do  not  tell  the 
police !  Do  not  tell  any  one !  I'll  never  do  it  again !" 

Madame  Cinati  had  quietly  turned  her  eyes  until  they 
had  rested  upon  the  face  of  the  concierge,  then  she  care- 
fully scrutinized  every  line  and  emotion  expressed  there. 

"This  woman  is  honest,"  she  thought,  "and  not  at  all 
capable  of  complicity  in  a  crime.  It  would  be  quite  out 
of  the  question  to  consider  her  in  the  light  of  any  sort 
of  an  accomplice,  and  it  is  quite  unnecessary  to  cause  her 
so  much  pain  by  giving  publicity  to  the  affair.  There 
would  be  no  use  in  trying  to  ferret  out  the  evil-doer  with- 
out police  and  detectives,  and  with  them  on  the  trail 
secrecy  would  be  a  thing  not  to  be  thought  of." 

287 


AN  AMERICAN.  SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"Oh !  Madame  and  Mademoiselle,"  exclaimed  the  con- 
cierge, in  heartrending  tones,  "I  pray  you  forgive  me!" 
and,  wringing  her  hands,  she  wailed  softly,  but  most  rue- 
fully. 

"I  believe  you  are  a  good  woman,  and  I  feel  certain 
you  know  nothing  of  the  'Miss  White'  who  brought  the 
roses — I  feel  certain  it  was  these  American  Beauty  roses 
she  had  in  the  pasteboard  box.  But  you  have  been  very 
indiscreet,  to  say  the  least — you  must  never  again  leave 
the  lodge  in  care  of  any  one." 

Then  tenderly  caressing  the  hand  of  Julia,  which  she 
took  between  her  own,  she  added :  "You  know  that  your 
carelessness  almost  caused  the  death  of  Miss  Pembroke." 

Julia  smiled  at  Madame  Cinati  and  then  at  the  con- 
cierge, saying:  "I  shall  <soon  be  well  and  strong,  but  I 
will  add  an  admonition  to  that  of  Madame  Cintai,"  and, 
stretching  out  her  free  hand  to  the  concierge,  she  went 
on,  kindly  however:  "Never  leave  your  lodge  again  in 
charge  of  any  one.  Let  no  one  pass  in  or  out  without 
your  knowledge." 

The  concierge  knelt,  and,  touching  Julia's  hand  rev- 
erently— reverently  as  if  it  had  been  the  hand  of  the  head 
of  her  church — vowed  she  would  never  again  leave  the 
lodge. 

"Concierge,  go  and  tell  the  doctor  he  is  not  needed 
now,  for  the  young  lady  has  recovered." 

"I'll  run  at  once." 

"Here,"  said  the  prima  donna,  "before  you  go  put 
those  roses  into  a  box  and  take  them  to  a  chemist — Mon- 
sieur Dekkah.  Tell  him  that  Madame  Cinati  thinks  some 
deleterious  substance  has  gotten  into  these  flowers,  and 
she  wants  to  know  what  he  finds.  Don't  speak  of  them 
being  in  Miss  Pembroke's  room."  Then  turning  to  Julia, 
the  prima  donna  continued :  "I  can  not  fathom  this  mys- 
tery." 

288 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"Nor  I,  either,"  said  Julia :  "I  did  not  think  it  possible 
that  any  one  in  the  world  would  do  me  harm." 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Madame  Cinati,  in  a  sad,  seri- 
ous voice,  "it  behooves  you  to  be  on  guard  in  the  future. 
Some  one  did  the  deed,  and  some  one  meant  you  harm. 
Now,  whether  that  one  will  attempt  the  like  again,  I  can 
not,  of  course,  say;  but  it  is  more  than  likely  that  the 
one  who  had  the  daring  to  do  this  will  have  the  daring  to 
make  other  attempts.  Julia,  my  dear  child,  be  very  cau- 
tious ;  your  life  here  has  been  so  sweet  and  -so  unevent- 
ful that  you  could  be  easily  ensnared  by  persons  bent  on 
evil  doing." 

A  short  pause  ensued,  in  which  each  was  busy  with 
her  own  thoughts,  and  it  is  safe  to  presume  that  the  sub- 
jects of  the  reflections  were  the  same. 

"And  you  are  going  to  America?"  said  Julia,  break- 
ing the  silence. 

"Yes,  dear;  La  Provence  leaves  port  at  five"  this  eve- 
ning." 

"America !  America !  America !"  and  Julia  clapped  her 
hands  gleefully,  and  gazed  over  the  high  silver  teapot 
on  the  tray — beyond  the  confines  of  her  little  boudoir — 
beyond  the  building — outside  of  Paris — beyond  its  walls 
— far  across  France — over  the  ocean — across  the  coast 
line — the  Piedmont — in  and  out  through  pass  after  pass 
of  the  Appalachian  mountain  system,  to  the  beauitful  val- 
ley of  the  Ohio  River — into  the  city  of  her  birth — the 
city  of  her  mother's  tomb — and  of  all  which  to  her  was 
most  sacred  upon  earth. 

"You  did  not  continue  upon  the  tour  you  first 
planned,"  said  Julia,  laying  aside  her  napkin. 

"No,  Julia ;  I  canceled  those  engagements,  for  I  pre- 
fer going  to  America,  and  the  offer  came  only  yesterday. 
It  is  a  great  treat  to  sing  to  American  audiences.  They 
are  both  perfectly  appreciative  and  keenly  critical." 

289 


AN   AMERICAN    SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

"What  will  you  sing  in  New  York?" 

"I  am  to  sing  'Traviata'  at  the  Manhattan  on  New 
Year's  eve." 

"How  I  wish  I  could  be  there  and  hear  you  sing!" 

"No,  no,  Julia ;  when  you  come  to  America  it  must 
be  as  the  singer  of  the  evening — the  prima  donna.  Why, 
that  is  eleven !"  exclaimed  Madame  Cinati.  Then  taking 
out  her  beautifully  jeweled  watch  and  comparing  it  with 
the  little  clock  upon  the  mantel,  she  asked:  "Is  that  the 
correct  time?" 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Julia. 

"Well,  Julia,  I  think  you  are  strong  enough  now  to 
listen  to  the  import  of  my  visit." 

"Yes,  I  feel  perfectly  recovered,"  said  Julia ;  "please 
have  no  hesitancy  in  speaking  to  me  upon  whatever  sub- 
ject you  wish  to  broach." 

"I  came  in  to  see  you  on  a  little^errand  of  business.  In 
connection  with  my  operatic  work  in  New  York  I  am  to 
make  some  concert  tours  out  to  cities  as  far  west  as 
Chicago.  During  my  stay  in  th'at  city,  with  your  permis- 
sion, I  shall  send  my  secretary  to  confer  with  the  lawyers 
who  advertised  for  Miss  Julia  Pembroke  to  claim  her  for- 
tune." 

"My  dear  Madame  Cinati,  act  in  any  capacity  your 
judgment  may  suggest." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Madame  Cinati,  taking  out  a 
fountain  pen  from  the  depths  of  a  gold-ring  hand-bag, 
studded  all  over  with  many  opals ;  also  taking  out  a  long 
sheet  of  legal  paper  bearing  the  stamp  of  France,  such  as 
that  upon  which  all  business  transactions,  legally  recog- 
nized, must  be  written.  "See,  I  am  a  real  Portia,  Julia." 
And  she  laughed  that  pretty  soft  ripple  known  to  all  her 
friends  as  the  "laugh  of  liquid  gold." 

"Why !"  laughed  Julia  in  concert  with  Madame  Cinati, 
who  truly  felt  queer  in  this  new  capacity  of  scribe,  for 

290 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

it  was  seldom  indeed  that  she  even  held  in  her  hand  a  pen 
for  any  purpose  whatever;  "why,  Madame  Cinati,  what 
a  picture  you  make !" 

''Now,  Julia,  give  me  the  names  of  any  persons  in 
America  whom  you  would  like  me  to  see — the  lawyers 
and  so  forth." 

Julia  gave  her  the  name  of  the  law  firm,  whose  fam- 
ilies in  Chicago  had  attended  the  same  church  as  herself, 
and  with  whom  she  had  had  a  very  favorable,  though 
slight,  acquaintance.  "Bertram  Pembroke  was  my 
father's  name;  Jane  Hamley  was  my  stepsister;  Anna 
and  Edith  Pembroke  were  my  half  sisters." 

"Your  mother's  name?" 

"Cordelia  Mertonby,"  Julia  answered,  gravely,  for 
there  came  before  her  a  vision  of  what  life  had  been  for 
her  had  her  own  dear  mother,  Cordelia  Mertonby  Pem- 
broke, lived,  to  watch  over  and  direct  the  ways  and  means 
by  which  her  baby,  Julia,  was  to  reach  the  period  which 
she  had  now  reached. 

Madame  Cinati  noticed  the  shade  of  gravity  in  the 
tone  of  Julia's  voice,  and  quickly  looked  up,  but  Julia 
immediately  possessed  herself,  and  as  quickly  dismissed 
the  emotion. 

"Please,  dear,  how  do  you  spell  Mertonby?" 

«M-e-r"— 

"Ding! — ding! — ding! — sounded  the  outside  bell 
sharply. 

Julia  made  a  movement  to  get  up,  but  Madame  Cinati 
objected :  "No,  Julia,  do  not  attempt  to  rise.  I  will  go." 

Julia  did  not  listen,  but  she  could  not  help  hearing  the 
voices,  as  the  two  women  neared  the  door  of  the  boudoir, 
and  she  at  once  recognized  Lady  Trent. 

Only  twice  or  thrice  could  Julia  hear  the  sweet,  clear 
voice  of  Madame  Cinati,  for  evidently  Lady  Trent  was 
asking  many  questions. 

291 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS.  ' 

"Oh!  my  dear  Julia!"  exclaimed  Lady  Trent,  on  en- 
tering the  room;  "just  as  I  feared.  I  thought  you  must 
be  ill  when  you  were  not  to  be  found  in  your  place  at 
Holy  Trinity,  particularly  when  I  recalled  that  you  had 
said  you  never  absented  yourself  from  morning  service." 

Julia  smiled,  saying:  "I  am  not  ill  now,  Lady  Trent. 
See" — pointing  to  the  breakfast  tray — "I  have  eaten  quite 
a  breakfast — far  more  than  any  one  could  eat  were  he 
the  slightest  bit  ill." 

"Madame  Cinati  tells  me  it  might  have  proved  some- 
thing serious." 

Then  Madame  Cinati  told  all  as  it  had  occurred  and 
transpired,  even  to  her  own  suspicion  that  the  flowers 
had  caused  the  illness  of  Julia. 

"Well!  well!"  mildly  exclaimed  Lady  Trent,  in  a 
-somewhat  dazed  manner,  and  as  if  trying  to  realize  the 
meaning  of  all  Madame  Cinati  had  been  telling  her.  She 
sat  looking  quietly  at  Julia  and  viewing  the  situation 
from  all  sides.  What  could  it  all  mean?  And  who  could 
have  done  it?  How  dangerous  for  a  young  girl  alone  in 
Paris!  What  if  Madame  Cinati  had  not  found  her! 
These  were  the  many  thoughts  passing  through  Lady 
Trent's  mind  as  the  result  of  Madame  Cinati's  informa- 
tion. 

Gathering  a  little  energy,  she  asked: 

"Where  are  the  roses?" 

"I  gave  directions  to  the  concierge  to  ask  a  chemist 
to  examine  them  and  to  report  immediately  as  to  the 
findings." 

"But  how  could  a  stranger  gain  entrance  to  your 
room  during  your  absence?" 

"The  old  woman  let  her  in,"  said  Madame  Cinati 
quickly,  for  she  wished  to  prevent  Julia's  exerting  her- 
self to  answer. 

292 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"Is  that  old  woman  concierge  for  a  building  like  this?" 

"Ah !  no !  dear  Lady  Trent ;  the  concierge,  her  daugh- 
ter had  gone  to  Midnight  Mass" — 

"Ah!  I  see,"  she  interrupted,  "and  her  old  mother 
let  in  a  stranger.  How  dangerous  I"  And  Lady  Trent 
shuddered  at  thought  of  the  danger  to  which  Julia  was 
exposed  with  a  concierge  so  unreliable  as  to  the  respon- 
sibility of  her  office  as  concierge. 

"I  regret  much,"  said  Madame  Cinati,  "to  change  so 
suddenly  from  this  subject  which  interests  me  much,  but 
I  leave  for  New  York  at  twelve." 

"Why !  Madame  Cinati.  Going  to  America  ?" 

"Yes,  Lady  Trent;  the  train  leaves  at  twelve  forty- 
five.  I  am  sorry  to  go  while  Julia  is  ill,  but  I  must,  or 
break  my  engagement." 

"You  birdies — you  sing — you  fly — and  you  sing  and 
fly  back,"  playfully  remarked  Lady  Trent. 

"Yes,"  said  Julia ;  "she  is  going  to  my  dear  native 
land." 

"I  believe  my  little  Julia  is  in  danger  of  an  attack 
of  nostalgia,"  said  Lady  Trent,  smiling  inquiringly  at 
Julia. 

"Oh!  no;  I  am  content  to  stay  in  Paris,  another  year 
of  study ;  but,  really,  I  do  wish  I  could  go  to  America." 

"Lady  Trent,"  interrupted  Madame  Cinati,  "may  I 
ask  you  to  pardon  Julia  and  myself  if  we  transact  a  bit 
of  business  just  now?" 

"Assuredly,  my  dear.  Really,  it  is  fully  time  that 
I  go,  or  I  shall  be  late  at  luncheon,"  said  Lady  Trent, 
in  answer;  and,  rising  quickly,  she  put  out  her  hand 
and  patted  Julia  tenderly,  adding:  "Don't  have  any  cut 
flowers  in  your  bedroom  at  any  time.  They  throw  off 
too  much  poisonous  gas." 

"Dear  Lady  Trent,"  said  the  prima  donna,  coming 
beside  her  and  laying  a  dainty  hand  fondly  upon  her 

293 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

shoulder,  "do  be  seated  and  remain.  We  shall  finish  in 
a  very  short  time,  for  we  were  about  through  when  you 
gave  us  the  pleasure  of  this  charming  little  visit." 

"Ah!  how  prettily  one  can  speak  in  French,"  replied 
Lady  Trent;  "I  should  love  to  be  French  when  I  wish 
to  please." 

"Do  stay,  Lady  Trent,"  said  Julia,"for  I  shall  be 
alone  in  a  few  minutes,  and  quite  likely  I  shall  be  a  bit 
lonely.  My  mind  may  incline  to  follow  Madame  Cinati." 

"Very  well,  Julia;  I'll  sit  over  here,  out  of  all  danger 
of  naughtiness."  And  Lady  Trent  went  to  a  seat  by 
the  window,  through  the  curtains  of  which  she  could 
have  quite  a  vista  if  she  wished  to  look  out;  but  she 
was  never  obliged  to  recreate  in  this  way.  She  saw  a 
score  of  "Faust" — for  scores  of  many  operas  were  plen- 
tiful in  that  apartment,  and  she  picked  it  up  and  opened  it. 

Madame  Cinati  questioned  Julia  and  wrote  rapidly. 
After  some  time  she  said :  "Now,  Julia,  let  me  read  them 
over — father,  Bertram  Pembroke." 

"Yes,"  answered  Julia. 

Though  Lady  Trent  was  not  curious,  .she  thought 
much  of  Julia;  and,  being  a  noblewoman  by  birth,  was 
pleased  with  a  lineage — the  longer  the  better.  Pem- 
broke, that  was  a  very  good  name — very  English. 

"Your  mother's  name?" — 

"Mertonby,"  replied  Julia. 

"Beg  pardon,  my  dear;  but  did  I  understand  you  to 
say  your  mother's  name  was  Mertonby?" 

"Yes,  Lady  Trent,  that  was  her  name,"  and  Julia 
experienced  no  little  perturbation  of  spirits,  for  Lady 
Trent's  manner  had  struck  Julia  a  little  unfavorably; 
so  she  added:  "That  was  my  grandfather's  name." 

"Mertonby!  your  grandfather's  name!"  ejaculated 
Lady  Trent,  rising  and  going  toward  Julia.  "He  was  an 
Englishman?"  continued  Lady  Trent,  with  an  inflec- 

294 


AN   AMERICAN    SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

tion  which  showed  that  she  expected  an  answer  in  the 
affirmative. 

"Yes,  he  was  an  Englishman  by  birth,  but  after  his 
marriage,  in  Europe,  he  made  his  home  in  Cincinnati, 
where  he  lived  during  his  married  life.  There  he  died 
and  there  he  sleeps,  in  the  cemetery  on  the  banks  of  the 
beautiful  Ohio  River — he  sleeps  between  dear  grandma 
and  my  young  mother." 

The  tears  would  trickle,  though  Julia  strove  bravely 
to  restrain  them.  Madame  Cinati  would  leave  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  Julia,  strong  as  was  her  wont,  gently,  ten- 
terly,  lovingly  pushed  aside  those  blessed  memories  and 
turned  her  mind  to  scenes  of  a  brighter  hue. 

"Whom  did  your  grandfather  marry?  At  least,  was 
she  English?" 

"No,  Lady  Trent ;  she  was  not  English,"  replied 
Julia ;  she  was  Christine  Upsalen,  of  Sweden,  and  he 
wa<s  an  Englishman  of  nobility." 

Lady  Trent  leaned  forward,  and,  laying  a  hand  on 
either  of  Julia's  shoulders,  cried  out  delightedly:  "Julia 
Pembroke,  you  are  the  rightful  heir — you  are  the  Mar- 
chioness of  Essexby,  and  I  am  the  usurper.  Do  you 
understand?  My  father  was  the  young  brother  of  your 
grandfather.  Your  mother  was  my  first  cousin.  I  al- 
ways felt  peculiarly  drawn  toward  you,  and  I  am  sure 
that  Reginald  felt  somewhat  as  I  did,  and  you  and  he 
are  second  cousins"--  Lady  Trent  seemed  trying  to  real- 
ize that  the  affair  was  not  a  passing  dream,  which  would 
brush  away  easily  in  a  moment  of  time. 

Then,  gently  shaking  Julia,  she  said :  "I  must  try  to 
wake  up,  for  truly  I  can  not  realize  this  happy  truth. 
How  surprised  they  will  all  be  when  I  introduce  you  at 
Court,  for  you  must  go  home  with  me  at  once." 

"Now,  my  dear  friends  of  one  family,"  said  Madame 
Cinati,  overflowing  in  ripples  of  dainty  laughter,  "I  must 

295 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

leave  this  delightful  company,  which  I  hope  to  rejoin 
soon,  for  I  have  one  more  call  to  make,  and  then  I  go  to 
the  station." 

"Dear  Madame  Cinati,  I  shall  be  at  the  St.  Lazare 
to  see  your  train  depart,  and  to  send  you  off  with  a  sin- 
cere blessing."  And  Julia's  voice  was  not  minus  a  suspi- 
cion of  emotion  within. 

"Thank  you,  my  pretty  one ;  I  leave  you  with  a  much 
lighter  heart  than  I  had  thought  possible  when  I  saw 
your  feeble  condition  this  morning.  Now  Lady  Trent 
will  take  care  of  her  own  little  lamb — one  of  her  own 
flock."  And  she  stooped  and  kissed  Julia's  forehead  sev- 
eral times.  Julia  returned  the  tender  of  affection  by 
taking  both  of  Madame  Cinati's  hands  in  hers  and  kiss- 
ing them  over  and  over,  looking  up  into  the  face  of  the 
great  prima  donna  with  tenderest  love  beaming  from 
every  line  of  her  countenance — yes,  more  than  love  was 
written  there — it  partook  of  the  nature  of  worship,  and 
well  it  might,  for  the  student  life  of  Julia  Pembroke  had 
been  made  roseate  by  the  noble  generosity  of  the  great 
prima  donna — Madame  Cinati — the  lyric  diva,  who  had 
been  honored  with  every  decoration  bestowed  upon  a 
world's  songstress.  Julia  could  never  forget  that  hour 
in  Madame  Cinati's  room  at  the  hotel  in  Chicago,  when 
she  had  introduced  herself  to  the  Madame,  and  she 
would  ever  remain  grateful  to  the  great  prima  donna. 

"I  think,  dear,"  said  Madame  Cinati,  who  still  stood 
before  Julia,  in  whose  clasp  were  held  the  hands  of  her 
adored  sovereign,  "you  would  better  remain  quiet;  at 
least  not  subject  yourself  to  the  exertion  of  going  to  the 
train.  Lady  Trent,  your  new  mama,  will  tell  you  what 
is  best  for  you." 

"Yes,  I  shall  be  happy  to  do  so.  I  shall  take  espe- 
cially good  care  of  Julia.  She  must  come  and  live 
with  us." 

296 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"Good-bye,  then,  Julia." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Julia,  and,  rising  from  her  chair  for 
the  first  time  that  morning,  she  threw  her  arms  around 
the  singer  and  said:  "Good-bye,  my  darling  friend;  God 
go  with  you  and  protect  you." 

"Thank  you,  sweet  child.  I  wish  you  happiness, 
health  and  safety." 

"But  I  must  be  at  the  train.  This  good-bye  can  not 
do,"  exclaimed  Julia,  excitedly. 

Madame  Cinati  went  off,  saying:  "As  you  will,  dear 
one." 

After  Madame  Cinati  had  left,  Julia,  feeling  herself 
quite  recovered,  though  not  perfectly  strong,  had  decided 
to  go  to  the  station  to  bid  her  a  last  adieu.  So,  not  long 
after,  acting  on  this  decision,  Lady  Trent  and  Julia  left 
the  apartment  and  went  down  the  winding  staircase  to- 
gether. At  the  vestibule  door  Julia  caught  sight  of  the 
handsome  Mercedes  standing  in  front  of  the  door.  She 
also  saw  the  man  in  the  front  seat,  and  thought  nothing 
more  than  that  he  was  chauffeur;  but  when  she  reached 
the  entrance  and  the  man  alighted  to  open  the  door  of  the 
automobile,  she  saw  it  was  Lieutenant  Trent.  He  had 
on  an  immense  coat  of  fine  stuff — black  and  of  an  emi- 
tive  quality.  The  cuffs  and  collar  were  seal,  and  the 
turned-up  collar  just  came  above  his  ears,  and  partly  hid 
the  cheeks  and  entirely  covered  the  fine  combative  line 
of  the  jaw. 

Julia  had  not  yet  seen  him  in  this  cloak,  but  men- 
tally she  pronounced  him  very  handsome.  Julia  put  out 
her  hand,  and,  with  an  appreciative  smile,  greeted  him 
with :  "Merry  Christmas,  Reginald.  You  look  very  hand- 
some in  this  great  coat  and  cap." 

Trent,  though  a  soldier  of  great  fortitude,  stood 
amazed  at  the  familiarity  of  the  young  lady,  for  whom 
he  had  been  cherishing  a  very  ardent  affection,  and  who 

297 


AN   AMERICAN    SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

on  former  occasions  had  always  had  such  an  exquisitely 
delicate  reticence  of  manner. 

He  smiled  and  held  open  the  door,  but  could  not  at 
once  answer  this  Miss  Pembroke,  with  the  free,  open 
manner.  He  had  thought  of  her  in  a  relation  dearer  than 
that  of  mother,  but  now  he  was  undecided,  for  the  wife 
of  Lieutenant  Trent  must  be  a  lady — one  for  whom  he 
would  never  need  to  blush.  He  felt  certain  she  would 
not  please  his  mother  now,  but  he  had  noticed  an  odd 
half  smile  flit  across  the  face  of  his  mother  when  Miss 
Pembroke  had  accosted  him. 

As  they  sped  off  toward  the  depot,  Lady  Trent  leaned 
forward  and  said  something  to  her  son.  He  turned  sud- 
denly and  looked  at  Julia  with  a  strange,  eager  expres- 
sion, which  an  observer  would  have  interpreted  as  an  in- 
terrogation requiring  an  answer,  in  compliance  with  the 
wishes  of  Trent,  listening  the  while  to  his  mother,  who 
still  related  something  of  a  surprising  nature.  When 
the  motor  car  reached  Rue  d'Amsterdam,  the  street  was 
congested  and  looked  like  the  swollen  tributary  of  a 
great  river.  Many,  many  people  crowded  and  jostled 
one  another  on  the  sidewalks.  The  cobbled  street  was 
swarming  with  vehicles  of  all  descriptions,  and  so  dense 
was  the  throng  that  every  now  and  then  the  lines  of  car- 
riages ascending  and  descending  the  narrow  way  were 
halted. 

It  was  then  that  some  of  the  pedestrians,  wishing  to, 
cross  to  the  other  side  of  the  street,  seeing  the  halt  of 
carriages,  would  edge  and  wind  their  way  through  the 
waiting  vehicles,  but  often,  before  they  could  succeed  in 
reaching  the  opposite  curbing,  the  line  of  carriages  would 
begin  to  move,  and  they  would  find  themselves  in  very 
great  danger  of  having  their  feet  run  over  or  of  being 
thrown  to  the  ground. 

;       298 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Trent  began  to  wish,  he  had  come  by  the  Rue  de 
Londres,  but  as  he  could  not  turn  around,  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  to  wait. 

A  wagon  that  had  been  standing  near  the  curb,  and 
which  belonged  to  a  carter,  moved  on.  Trent,  seeing  the 
open  space,  turned  the  car  to  follow  the  carter,  but  almost 
instantly  he  was  forced  to  back,  for  the  motor  car  was 
too  large  to  follow  in  the  wake  of  the  wagon. 

"Stop !  stop  the  automobile !"  It  was  Julia's  voice. 

Trent  looked  around,  and  saw  that  one  more  revolu- 
tion of  the  wheel  and  he  would  run  over  and  most 
likely  kill  a  small,  ragged  creature,  with  a  very 
sad  face.  She  was  a  young  girl — some  fourteen  years — 
with  an  unearthly  pallor,  and  so  frightened  that  she  ap- 
peared unable  to  move  her  meager  little  body,  and  stood 
just  in  the  wheel  track,  panting  and  with  dilated  eyes, 
like  a  trapped  fawn. 

"Step  out,"  said  Julia,  kindly ;  "step  out  and  go  back 
to  the  sidewalk.  We  shall  not  move  until  you  are  safe." 

The  little  girl  was  French,  and,  smiling  at  Julia,  who 
had  addressed  her  in  her  own  pretty  language,  obeyed. 

"You  have  excellent  presence  of  mind,"  said  Lady 
Trent.  "Such  women  become  heroines  in  times  of  peril, 
when  immediate  action  is  required." 

Trent  stopped  at  the  end  of  the  covered  way,  and, 
assisting  the  ladies  out  of  the  motor  car,  the  three  went 
toward  the  gate,  after  Trent  had  given  an  old  man  a 
franc  if  he  would  guard  his  automobile. 

The  last  shrill  whistle  was  sounding".  The  train 
jerked — moved — stopped — jerked  again — the  screeching 
of  the  whistle  growing  louder  and  more  vigorous  all  the 
while.  On  all  sides  was  commotion,  for  it  was  a  critical 
moment,  as  well  for  those  a  moment  too  late  as  for  those 
in  charge  of  the  going  out  of  the  great  liner,  those  to 
whom  the  throng  trusted  for  safety. 

299 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Then  the  train  moved  on  slowly.  And  the  little  party, 
rushing  through  the  gate,  saw  the  uselessness  of  further 
effort  to  reach  the  coach,  at  the  window  of  which  the 
prima  donna,  Madame  Cinati,  was  seen  by  her  friends* 
Trent  lifted  his  cap  and  stood  bent  forward  in  an  atti- 
tude of  great  respect,  while  Lady  Trent  and  Julia  waved 
good-bye. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight,  that  little  group,  to  Madame 
Cinati,  at  the  window,  from  which  she  continued  looking 
and  throwing  kisses,  until  she  could  see  it  no  more. 
Julia  thought  of  America  as  she  watched  the  train  dis- 
appearing, then  tried  to  think  how  much  she  loved 
France,  but  she  was  born  of  blood  that  had  been  patriot- 
ically true  to  America,  and,  naturally,  she  herself  was  as 
patriotic. 

In  the  Route  de  la  Muette,  a  rider,  in  the  full  ca- 
parison of  the  fashionable  riding  world,  was  walking  his 
horse,  a  beautiful  jet-black  steed,  with  a  neck  like  a  ready 
bow ;  a  long,  silky  mane,  like  thick  spun  floss,  which  al- 
most covered  one  side  of  his  shapely  neck;  a  tail  that 
formed  like  a  fan,  just  swept  above  the  line  of  the  small 
ankle — he  was  a  thoroughbred,  from  the  quivering  nos- 
trils and  the  narrow,  pointed  ears,  to  the  small,  polished 
hoofs.  He  was  proud  of  himself,  but  prouder  by  far  of 
his  rider,  for  a  horse  knows  whether  the  one  seated  in 
the  saddle  is  an  equestrian  or  not;  and,  too,  he  was  the 
petted  animal  of  the  rider,  and  his  attachment  for  his 
master  was  a  something  of  human  devotion.  The  rider 
was  Alverstone. 

He  did  not  look  happy,  arid  it  seemed  probable  that 
he  had  not  enjoyed  the  beautiful  Christmas  day,  when 
all  the  Christian  world  should  be  happy;  at  least,  moved 
by  a  degree  of  gratitude  for  the  faith  in  Christ.  Many 
passers,  noticing  the  extraordinary  care  with  which  his 

300 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

horse  was  groomed,  remarked  the  sad  countenance  of 
the  rider,  and  wondered  aimlessly  about  this  stranger, 
until  some  novelty  in  the  way  of  another  passer-by  car- 
ried the  mind  off  into  another  channel.  The  naked  aspect 
of  the  branches  upon  the  trees  gave  a  strange,  weird  tone 
to  the  aeolian  music  sung  through  the  Bois  on  that  espe- 
cial Christmas  noontide,  and  awakened  in  the  mind  of  a 
thoughtful  person  like  Alverstone  feelings  of  sadness, 
as  his  mind  took  on  an  historic  coloring;  and  he  saw  in 
fancy  the  world  of  those  whose  lives  had  been  lost  in 
that  great  woods  once  infested  by  bands  of  robbers,  but 
which  was  now  beautifully  arranged  for  purposes  of  a 
world-renowned  park,  and  decorated  with  touches  of  the 
highest  specimen  of  the  art  of  landscape  gardening.  Out 
of  the  soft,  rich  soil  the  grass  grew,  and  where  the  damp 
moss  of  a  past  summer  had  dried  up  and  grown  dull, 
the  dark  green  trunks  of  massive  forest  trees  rose  gloomy 
in  their  sturdy  stateliness. 

Alverstone  thought,  in  a  sert  of  melancholy  mood, 
that  the  dreadful  howlings  of  the  wind  through  the 
branches  of  these  great  monitors  of  past  ages  might  be 
the  wailings  of  the  spirits,  suddenly  and  prematurely 
thrust  out  of  the  body  and  left  there  to  wail  and  so  wail 
on  to  infinity. 

With  his  mind  darkened  by  such  coloring,  a  magnifi- 
cent Mercedes  swept  across  the  wide  allce  in  front  of 
him.  They  did  not  see  him,  but  he  saw  them,  and  they 
were  not  going  so  fast  that  he  could  not  see  that  Julia  was 
leaning  over  the  front  seat,  talking  in  an  eagerly  excited 
manner  to  the  chauffeur,  whom  Alverstone  at  once  rec- 
ognized as  Trent,  though  he  had  never  seen  him  so  at- 
tired. Julia  was  speaking  with  a  familiarity  altogether 
unbecoming,  and  only  last  night,  in  the  Madeleine,  she 
had  told  him  that  she  would  marry  him  if  she  ever  mar- 
ried any  one,  but  that  she  was  married  to  her  art.  Really, 

301 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

he  was  not  quite  sure  that  he  cared  to  marry  a  woman 
who  would  be  so  free  with  men  not  allied  by  ties  of 
blood.  No,  his  wife  must  not  be  of  that  class  of  women. 
All  the  women  of  his  large  connection  in  America  were 
women  of  pure,  unsullied  characters,  and,  like  Caesar's 
wife,  above  suspicion;  but  a  young  woman,  riding  out 
alone  with  a  man  whom  she  had  known  but  a  few  days, 
and  chatting  most  familiarly  with  him,  could  not,  to  his 
mind,  rank  sufficiently  high  to  suit  his  ideals — and  yet — 
his  thead  throbbed,  for  he  had  really  worshiped  at  the 
feet  of  this  young  American — this  Julia  —  Pemb — b — • 
he  caught  his  breath ;  it  was  a  great  shock  to  his  nice 
sense  of  propriety.  How  could  it  be,  that  she,  by  whom 
he  had  sat  only  last  night — less  than  twelve  hours  ago — 
she  for  whom  he  had  declared  undying  love,  should  now 
be  out  with  another  man,  and  to  all  appearances  truly 
enjoying  life  with  him,  for  she  was  talking  in  a  most 
vivacious  manner.  Jealousy  blinded  the  eyes  of  his  soul 
— his  being — his  all,  so  that  he  saw  only  Julia  and  Trent. 
He  had  not  seen  the  person  of  Lady  Trent,  wrapped  in 
her  dark  furs  and  sitting  close  in  the  corner  of  the  motor 
car,  next  to  himself.  No,  he  had  seen  only  Trent  and 
Julia  and  their  happiness  with  each  other.  She  had  not 
even  responded  to  his  serenade  of  last  night.  That  of 
itself  had  hurt  him,  for  he  saw  no  reason  why  .she  could 
not  signify  her  appreciation ;  but  now  he  understood  all ; 
she  did  not  wish  to  do  so,  certainly  not. 

His  pulse  seemed  ceasing  to  beat,  for  his  heart  was 
pausing  in  its  work — life  threatened  to  leave  him — he 
gasped:  "Ah,  Shakespeare  knew  the  heart  of  woman, 
when  he  said :  'Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman.' " 


302 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

To  Julia  Pembroke  the  day  was  not  what,  to  her  no- 
tion, was  a  pretty  Christmas  day,  for  in  America,  in  her  , 
home  at  Cincinnati,  she  had  remembered  Christmas  days 
when  the  sun  was  shining  in  resplendent  glory  from  the 
depths  of  a  blue  of  deepest  azure,  not  in  the  least  marred 
by  clouds  of  any  size ;  and  she  remembered  how  crisp  the 
air  had  been,  'and  how  she  had  stepped  from  a 
warm,  comfortable  home,  into  the  beautiful  sleigh,  drawn 
by  the  spirited  horses,  that  dashed  along  as  if  glad  to 
hear  the  ringing  of  the  joyous  bells  hung  in  strands 
around  their  graceful  necks  and  shapely  bodies — she  had 
remembered  all  this,  and  more,  too — but  she  would  not 
linger  on  the  scene  now,  for  it  was  framed  in  loving 
remembrance,  and  it  might  make  her  sad  in  the  retro- 
spect. Yet,  oh !  what  a  Christmas  is  had  in  that  far- 
away land  of  the  North  Central  States  of  America!  she 
thought,  exclamatorily. 

Julia  was  grateful  for  all  she  chose  to  call  "bless- 
ings," and  especially  was  she  glad  upon  this  day  to  know 
that  she  and  Lady  Trent  were  near  of  kin,  and  in  their 
fine  English  hospitality  they  had  come  and  taken  her  an 
exhilarating  ride  in  a  perfectly  new  Mercedes,  and  that, 
too,  all  along  the  great  pleasure  drives  of  the  Bois,  all 
over  the  avenues  and  the  great  boulevards  of  Paris. 

The  rain  was  not  then  falling,  but  it  threatened,  as  it 
does  in  Paris  at  this  season  of  the  year,  when  it  does 
not  actually  pour.  It  was  only  two  o'clock,  and  there 
was  time  enough  yet  for  a  mist — a  drizzle — and  then  a 
shower,  settling  into  a  steady  rain. 

303 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS'. 

In  the  absence  of  Madame  Cinati  her  carriage  was  at 
the  disposal  of  Julia.  And  she  had  telephoned  for  it  to 
be  at  her  place  by  two  of  the  afternoon,  and  now,  at  the 
specified  time,  she  had  given  the  order  for  a  drive  to 
Maestro  Novara's.  The  magnificent  turn-out  of  the 
prima  donna  was  known  to  all  who  knew  her,  for  no 
handsomer  pair  of  Arabian  steeds  was  ever  seen  pranc- 
ing along  the  driveways,  daintily  pawing  the  air,  as  if 
moving  in  play  instead  of  in  the  discharge  of  a  duty, 
and  that  often  under  the  cut  of  the  fierce  lash.  As  they 
dashed  gaily  around  the  Place  de  1'Etoile,  the  sun  came 
out  and  lit  up  the  scene,  which  was  one  of  great  interest 
to  any  person  of  a  reflective  turn  of  mind.  It  seemed 
that  a  large  part  of  Paris  was  out  on  its  holiday  jaunt, 
for  the  twelve  avenues  leading  up  to  Napoleon's  Tri- 
umphal Arch  were  streams  of  rushing  automobiles  and 
carriages,  coming  up  on  the  Place  de  1'Etoile  by  one  av- 
enue and  disappearing  by  some  other. 

And,  too,  the  sidewalks  were  thronged  with  pedes- 
trians— many  Parisians  out  for  their  daily  promenade, 
but  many  more  from  the  country  and  its  cities  and  towns, 
for  at  this  season  of  the  year  great  crowds  from  outside 
of  Paris  come  in  to  see  the  great  city — beautiful,  fasci- 
nating, all-absorbing  Paris — Paris,  which  is  that  place 
next  to  his  own,  if  not  equal  to  or  before  his  own  place, 
for  every  one  who  goes  there. 

Sad  to  say,  however,  one  cloud  of  inky  blackness 
marred  this  otherwise  beautiful  sight,  and  no  slight  effort 
on  the  part  of  every  humane  person  is  required  to  keep 
his  mind  in  the  joyous  mood  of  Merry  Christmas;  for  on 
all  sides  is  to  be  seen  the  entire  body  of  a  young  or  an 
old  beggar,  when  that  beggar  is  not  a  fractional  human 
being,  with  just  the  infinitesimal  portion  of  a  human  or- 
ganization, that  makes  for  the  balance  of  life.  Some  of 
these  poor  bits  of  humanity — perhaps  only  the  trunk,  the 

304 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

head  and  the  arm  or  arms — are  given  locomotion  by 
means  of  the  little  express  wagon,  moved  by  their  skele- 
ton arms,  and  whether  in  summer  or  in  winter,  in  rain 
or  in  shine,  one  is  met  by  the  upturned  face  of  the  little 
sufferer — a  face  in  which  is  registered  untold  agony,  not 
only  from  the  amputated  limbs  or  other  deformities,  but 
from  the  suffering  entailed  upon  the  pain-racked  rem- 
nant of  an  organism  by  its  efforts  at  locomotion.  That 
he  enjoys  the  open  air  and  the  freedom  is  belied  in  the 
anguish  of  the  little  face  of  unearthly  pallor. 

Though  the  threatened  rain  had  not  yet  descended, 
the  sun  now  wore  a  very  heavy  gray  veil,  so  that  no  one 
could  see  his  form,  let  alone  his  smile.  The  Parisian 
knows  better  than  to  look  for  his  beaming  countenance 
for  long  at  a  time  during  this  season  of  the  year,  so  he  is 
condemned  as  a  capricious  fellow. 

Julia  felt  for  the  Venetian  vase.  It  was  at  her  side 
and  safe.  Next  she  felt  the  little  box  in  her  muff  of 
royal  ermine  and  it  was  safe. 

"Ah!"  she  thought;  "it  was  very  charming  of  Mad- 
ame Nitolsk  to  wish  to  remember  me  with  this  beautiful 
Christmas  gift,  but  her  notions  of  the  value  of  a  gift,  no 
doubt,  are  in  keeping  with  the  great  wealth  with  which 
she  has  always  been  surrounded." 

Julia  Pembroke  had  good  blood,  and  could  not  vio- 
late her  conscience  in  accepting  a  gift  whose  value  might 
be  disproportionate  with  the  relation  existing  between  the 
giver  and  the  object  of  the  kind  remembrance. 

"No,"  she  said ;  "it  is  beyond  me  to  accept  it." 

Here,  jarring  over  a  rough  spot  in  the  avenue,  the 
Teddy  bear,  which  she  had  as  a  Christmas  gift  for  some 
one,  fell  off  the  seat.  She  leaned  forward  and  picked  it 
up,  putting  it  in  its  place  on  the  seat  before  her.  Her 
face  flushed  as  she  leaned  forward.  "What  a  strange 
sensation  for  me !"  she  thought,  for  it  had  taken  the  hot 

305 


AN   AMERICAN    SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

flush  some  time  to  subside.  Then  the  face  was  cool 
beyond  its  wont. 

"How  strange !"  again  she  thought ;  "this  is,  no  doubt, 
the  result  of  my  illness  last  night.  Now  that  is  strangest 
of  all — Miss  White — an  American — a  box  of  roses — a 
card  and  a  woman  wearing  a  large  cloak.  Well,  we  may 
yet  know  all  pertaining  to  the  affair,  and  I  am  quite  sure 
that  the  business  manager  of  Madame  Cinati  will  learn 
all  there  is  to  know  of  Miss  White,  her  roses  and  her 
mission." 

And  she  looked  out  between  the  little  silk  curtains 
across  the  window,  for  she  had  partly  drawn  them  to 
hide,  if  possible,  from  the  importunities  with  which  the 
beggars  would  always  follow  her,  whether  she  went  on 
foot,  in  a  cab  or  in  the  magnificent  carriage  of  Madame 
Cinati,  proving  beyond  question  the  certainty  with  which 
these  beggars  can  distinguish  the  sympathetic  from  the 
unsympathetic  face. 

Just  as  Julia  looked  out  at  the  window  her  eyes  fell 
upon  a  beautiful  jet  black  charger,  ridden  by  a  very 
stylish  young  man.  Julia  knew  it  was  one  for  whom 
she  should  have  a  happy  smile  of  welcome  and  good 
will,  and  was  about  to  let  him  know  that  such  was  her 
predominating  emotions,  when  a  glint  of  recognition  shot 
through  his  eye,  but  instantly  it  vanished  into  a  look  of 
vague  consciousness,  which  became  a  general  view  of 
the  equipage,  and  he  turned  his  head  slowly  and  nonchal- 
antly in  the  opposite  direction. 

Julia  was  astonished,  amazed,  dumbfounded  by  turns. 
Her  eyes  dilated  and  her  breath  came  hard. 

Could  it  be  that  he  only  saw  a  woman,  but  did  not 
recognize  it  was  she !  she  with  whom  a  few  short  hours 
before  he  had  pleaded  for  the  right  to  call  her  his  bride ! 
— his  wife!  They  had  parted  the  best  of  friends!  He 
had —  Oh,  pshaw!  she  would  not  think  of  Hampton 

306 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Alverstone  in  so  unkind  a  manner.  He  had  not  known 
her  when  he  looked  at  the  carriage.  She  put  up  her 
hand  and  pushed  back  the  delicate  silk  curtain  play- 
fully, saying  lightly:  "You  little  naughtiness,  you  are 
to  blame  for  this ;  you  kept  my  lover" — 

She  started  and  clapped  her  hand  tightly  across  her 
mouth,  looking  around  as  though  she  expected  to  hear 
some  one  comment  accordingly  upon  the  vacillating 
character  of  woman.  Then  she  colored  her  thought  with 
a  shade  of  blue,  and  the  warm  glowing  rose  of  the  morn- 
ing tint  gave  place  to  that  of  sombre  blue,  seen  in  the 
approaching  April  shower — for  love,  true  love,  has  all 
the  seasonal  changes  before  it  arrives  at  the  highest  de- 
velopment of  its  entire  love  year. 

But  suppose  he  had  known  her;  that  would  have 
been  an  odd  way  to  meet  her,  after  such  an  hour  as  they 
had  spent  together  in  the  Madeleine.  If  he  could  be  gov- 
erned by  moods  such  as  that,  she  was  better  off  without 
him,  she  thought;  at  least,  she  was  quite  sure  that  she 
did  not  care  for  him. 

She  was  now  nearing  the  master's,  and  she  must 
think  on  pleasanter  things.  The  dear  old  Signor  Novara 
and  his  charming  wife,  Signora  Novara,  would  be  glad 
to  see  her,  and  their  happy  Christmas  greeting  she  heard 
before  she  entered.  Both  would  seize  her  hands — one  on 
either  side — as  soon  as  the  old  butler  should  have  shown 
her  into  the  grand  salon.  They  would  lead  her  to  a  sofa, 
and  the  three  would  sit  upon  it  together  while  exchang- 
ing the  good  wishes — the  compliments  of  the  season — 
there  were  no  presents  exchanged  at  this  time.  Julia 
respected  the  foreign  notion  of  the  maestro  and  his 
household,  and  on  New  Year's  morning  she  called  and 
left  the  gold  coin  in  the  butler's  hand  as  she  passed  in 
through  the  door,  which  for  the  entire  year  just  ended  he 
had  very  politely  opened  at  her  ring  and  opened  again 

307 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

at  her  departure,  and  he  was  always  pleased  with  her 
little  remembrance. 

Then  she  would  exchange  the  New  Year's  presents 
with  the  Signer  and  the  Signora  Novara. 

She  stepped  from  the  carriage,  and  while  doing  so 
gave  orders  to  the  footman  to  wait. 

Just  then  a  cheery  voice  rang  out  from  a  little  dis- 
tance : 

"Good  afternoon,  cousin  Julia." 

"Ah !  cousin  Reginald,"  exclaimed  Julia. 

"You  are  not  taking  a  lesson  to-day,  I  hope." 

"Oh,  no;  just  going  to  pay  my  respects  to  Signer  and 
Signora  Novara." 

"You  are  to  be  with  us  this  evening,  for  we  must 
join  hands  around  the  family  board  on  this  first  Christ- 
mas of  our  newly  found  relationship." 

"I  should  like  to,  cousin  Reginald,  but  I  can  not." 

"Oh,  now  you  can,"  and  Trent  stepped  closer  to  her, 
saying  on :  "I  must  have  you  there,  and  I  must  hear  our 
American  nightingale  sing — sing  some  little  song,  if  the 
master  will  not  permit  of  an  aria." 

Julia  prettily  put  up  her  hand,  as  if  waving  him  back, 
at  the  same  time  saying,  in  her  happiest  manner :  "I  pray 
you,  cousin  Reginald,  desist — desist." 

Just  then  the  jet-black  charger  and  his  rider  came 
into  view  at  the  end  of  the  short  street,  and  this  time 
Julia  looked  into  the  face  of  Hampton  Alverstone,  with 
the  difference  that  this  time  she  knew  that  he  had  both 
seen  and  had  known  it  was  she  who  stood  facing  him; 
and,  too,  he  must  have  known  that  it  was  Trent  with 
whom  she  was  speaking,  for  Trent  was  in  the  full  dress 
of  his  rank,  and  very  easily  recognizable  by  a  friend, 
even  though  only  his  back  might  be  toward  that  friend. 

It  would  have  been  perfectly  proper  for  Alverstone 
to  have  spoken  to  Julia  at  the  distance  of  the  corner, 

308 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

i 

but  he  did  not.     He  only  looked  at  her,  and  as  quickly 

away  again;  but  Julia  had  thought  there  had  been  re- 
proach in  the  look,  and  this  she  had  bitterly  resented 
by  raising  her  voice  above  her  usual  pitch  and  saying: 
"Thank  you,  thank  you,  Reginald ;  I  shall  dine  with  you 
at  six-thirty  this  evening." 

As  she  finished  speaking  a  great  clatter  of  horse's 
hoofs  behind  Trent  made  him  turn,  and  he  had  just  time 
to  see  Alverstone  disappearing,  for  he  had  only  been 
crossing  the  short  street ;  yet  Trent  had  seen  enough  to 
understand  why  Julia's  face  had  paled,  while  Julia's 
eyes  had  flashed  defiantly,  and  why  the  horse's  hoofs  had 
made  so  much  noise.  But  he  had  no  time  to  say  any- 
thing, for  Julia  had  said  good-bye,  and  he  had  only  time 
to  do  his  duty  in  reply  to  her  word  of  parting. 

Trent  went  off  toward  the  boulevard.  He  was  very 
proud  of  his  nice  cousin — very,  very  proud,  and  he 
thought  how  happy  he  should  be  to  introduce  her  to  his 
brother  officers  and  their  ladies.  True,  he  had  made  love 
to  her,  but  she  had  not  cared  for  it;  in  fact,  she  had 
treated  it  as  she  might  the  words  of  a  loving  apprecia- 
tion from  the  lips  of  one  of  her  own  sex.  It  had  ended 
in  the  same  way  in  which  such  girlish  avowals  always, 
do  end — in  friendly  intercourse — in  warm  appreciation, 
each  of  the  other,  whenever  they  met;  and  now  that  the 
relationship  between  himself  and  Julia  was  near,  he  was 
certain  that  they  would  never  contract  a  marriage. 

The  Trents  were  a  strong-minded  family,  and  a  mar- 
riage within  the  bounds  of  consanguinity  would  never 
for  a  moment  be  countenanced  by  the  Trents.  Nowhere 
back  along  the  splendid  line  had  there  been  registered  a 
wreck  of  humanity  nor  any  approach  to  it,  through  the 
medium  of  degenerate  blood,  and  Trent  told  himself  that, 
knowing  this,  he  would  not  be  the  wayward  one  to  intro- 
duce a  new  graft  upon  the  dear,  old  family  tree. 

309 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

He  concluded  with  the  thought  that  Alverstone  was 
certainly  very  much  in  love  with  his  cousin  Julia,  and 
he  was  not  sorry,  for  he  really  liked  the  American  trav- 
eler and  financier,  and  he  thought  the  two  were  pecul- 
iarly suited  by  nature,  one  for  the  other.  Alverstone 
was  the  dark  type  of  man,  and  Julia  was  the  fair  type 
of  woman.  He  smiled  at  the  picture  of  the  handsome 
pair. 

And  this  dear  friend  of  his  showed  by  his  impatient 
irritability  of  this  afternoon,  that  he  was  not  a  little,  but 
quite  jealous  of  Reginald  Trent,  he  thought.  Then  he 
thought  again,  perhaps  he  had  had  a  right  before  now; 
but  of  this  he  would  disabuse  the  mind  of  Alverstone  at 
the  earliest  opportunity. 

Some  twenty  minutes  after  Julia  and  Trent  had 
parted,  Julia  came  out  of  the  Maestro  Novara's  door,  but 
she  was  not  alone. 

"Ah!  is  this  your  carriage?"  said  Madame  Nitolsk, 
for  it  was  she  who  accompanied  Julia.  The  footman 
opened  the  door  immediately  on  seeing  Miss  Pembroke. 

"Will  you  not  have  a  seat  with  me?"  she  asked,  at 
the  same  time  putting  out  her  left  hand  and  turning 
Madame  Nitolsk  toward  the  carriage,  as  if  to  urge  her 
invitation. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Pembroke ;  it  is  a  delight,  I  assure 
you." 

They  got  in  and  the  carriage  went  off  toward  the 
boulevard,  but  it  did  not  return  to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe, 
for  before  entering  the  carriage  Julia  had  given  the  num- 
ber of  Madame  Nitolsk's  residence,  on  the  Rue  Caumar- 
tin,  and  so  the  horses  went  in  the  direction  of  the  Opera. 
'  "Do  tell,  Miss  Pembroke ;  what  are  you  doing  with 
this?"  She  had  picked  up  the  Teddy  bear  and  was  look- 
ing from  it  to  Julia,  for  she  had  supposed  that  she  knew 

310 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Julia  better  than  she  did ;  if  Julia  were  given  to  indulging 
in  the  new  fad — carrying  around  artificial  animals.  Julia 
smiled  and  replied  with  the  question :  "Is  he  not  pretty  ?" 

"Yes,  but"— 

"No,"  interrupted  Julia;  "he  is  not  an  interloper  in 
society.  He  is  doing  a  real  work  in  life.  Wait,  I'll  tell 
you  his  mission  later." 

"He  has  a  nice  glossy  coat,"  said  Madame  Nitolsk, 
and,  after  another  moment's  examination,  she  added: 
"Excuse  me,  I  must  laugh,  for  his  nose  reminds  me  of 
Monsieur  Nevere ;  but  I  am  in  a  state  of  high  tension 
to-day,"  she  continued,  "and  I  laugh  easily." 

She  affected  this  frivolous  manner  only  to  hide  the 
real  condition  of  herself.  Her  life  had  been  spent  in 
the  management  of  what  she  wras  pleased  to  term  "My 
men,"  and  any  man  who  had  found  himself  in  their  home 
— the  home  of  Banker  Nitolsk — either  through  the  influ- 
ence of  the  splendid  man  whose  lawful  wife  she  had  suc- 
ceeded in  becoming,  or  for  diplomatic  reasons,  if  at  all 
susceptible  to  her  influence,  was  included  under  that  head. 
She  had  tried  to  play  with  them  as  though  they  had  been 
the  titular  dignitaries  of  the  chessboard,  whenever  it 
suited  her  purpose  to  do  so,  and  often  she  had  been  led 
by  this  purpose. 

Hampton  Alverstone  had  been  one  whom  she  had 
accounted  refractory,  and  she  had  really  given  him  a 
warmer  regard  than  she  had  ever  given  others — and  espe- 
cially had  she  been  given  to  this  since  the  death  of  her 
husband.  She  loved  him,  she  told  herself,  and  she 
would  allow  him  to  love  no  other  woman — not  for  long, 
at  any  rate.  This  was  her  disease,  and  she  had  the 
remedy. 

On  this  particular  afternoon,  when  Madame  Nitolsk 
had  seen  Julia  Pembroke  enter  the  grand  salon  of  Signor 
Novara,  she  had  tried  to  make  her  way  to  Julia  at  once. 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

But  Julia  being  acquainted  with  many  people  congregated 
in  the  salons,  she  was  detained  in  her  intentions.  Thus 
it  was  that  not  until  Julia  Pembroke  was  again  with  the 
maestro  and  his  wife,  saying  good  day,  that  Madame 
Nitolsk  learned  of  the  illness  of  Miss  Pembroke  during 
the  night  just  passed.  The  news  had  gone  like  chaff 
before  wind  among  the  many  groups,  but  each  informed 
partly  grasped  or  distorted  the  real  truth,  until  many 
rumors  reached  the  ear  of  Madame  Nitolsk.  She  was 
excited,  being  very  much  interested  in  the  young  Amer- 
ican singer,  as  she  pettingly  called  Julia,  and  determined 
to  learn  the  particulars;  so  when  Julia  left  the  salon 
Madame  Nitolsk  joined  her  in  the  great  corridor.  During 
the  ride  home,  in  answer  to  showers  of  questions  put 
by  Madame  Nitolsk,  Julia  had  told  of  her  attendance 
at  the  Midnight  Mass;  of  the  concierge  and  her  grief 
over  the  lost  francs,  and  the  nonappearance  of  her  son ; 
of  the  serenade,  the  stupor — the  all. 

"Open  window !  How  can  a  singer  sleep  with  an 
open  window  in  this  climate?" 

"I  do  not,"  replied  Julia;  "but  I  failed  to  lock  the 
casement  window  before  going  to  the  Madeleine." 

"Ah!"  said  Madame  Nitolsk,  with  eyeballs  dilated, 
to  the  verge  of  bursting.  "Ah !  I  see !  I  see !" 

Julia  shuddered,  not  at  the  sight  Madame  Nitolsk 
presented,  in  her  genuine  stare  of  surprise,  but  in  the 
thought  of  the  premature  death  which  she  had  suffered 
had  that  window  been  firmly  closed ;  for  to  her  there  was 
great  joy  in  living — her  delight  in  life  was  a  perpetual 
praise  to  her  Creator,  and  death  at  her  age  was  fraught 
with  only  unmixed  horror. 

After  a  moment's  silence — for,  in  fancy,  she  was  where 
she  thought  she  would  have  been  had  she  died  on  this 
Christmas  morning — "I  wonder  if  roses  ever  do  emit  a 
poisonous  substance?" 

312 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"Oh !  I  think  not,"  said  Madame  Nitolsk ;  "at  least,  not 
the  cultivated  rose."  Then  her  voice  became  even  more 
serious  than  it  had  been,  and  she  asked :  "To  what  phar- 
macy did  Madame  Cinati  send  the  roses,  may  I  ask?" 

"I  do  not  know  exactly,"  replied  Julia. 

"Do  you  know  in  what  quarter  of  Paris  ?" 

"No,  I  do  not.  I  seldom  go  to  drug  stores  of  any 
description." 

"You  did  not  even  hear  her  mention  the  name  of  the 
chemist  who  was  to  examine  them  ?" 

"No — yes,  I  believe  it  was  something  like  Aldek — the 
son  of  the  concierge  is  a  clerk  for  this  same  chemist,  and 
the  concierge  took  the  flowers  there,  I  think,  but  I  am  not 
quite  sure." 

"Oh!  oh!  oh!"  ejaculated  Madame  Nitolsk.  "How 
could  any  one  be  so  wicked  as  to  send  you  poisoned 
flowers !" 

"Well,"  said  Julia,  "we  do  not  know  that  the  flowers 
were  poisoned,  but  Madame  Cinati  said  they  had  a  very 
noxious  odor,  and  she  wished  the  chemist  to  examine 
them.  My  illness  might  have  been  caused  by  something 
else  than  the  odor  from  the  flowers — I  may  have  eaten 
something  indigestible." 

Madame  Nitolsk  drew  a  deep  breath — one  would  have 
pronounced  it  a  breath  of  relief.  Julia  remarked  the 
sigh,  and,  putting  her  hand  on  that  of  Madame  Nitolsk, 
said :  "We  shall  spend  the  rest  of  the  time  in  speaking 
of  Christmas  joys,  and  not  in  the  mention  of  this  un- 
pleasant affair." 

"Oh!  but  to  think  of  any  one  so  wicked  as  to  harm 
an  innocent,  earnest,  plodding  student,  like  you.  You 
have  some  very  bitter  enemy  in  the  world  of  your  song, 
no  doubt." 

"I  know  of  none,"  said  Julia ;  "but  let  it  pass  now." 

313 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"But,  really,  it  is  all  so  horrible  that  I  can  not  speak 
of  anything  else,"  said  Madame  Nitolsk,  and  she  put 
up  her  kerchief  as  if  to  shut  out  the  horror  of  it. 

After  a  little  she  leaned  back  in  the  deep  seat,  and 
the  marked  brows  were  very  level,  and  the  round  places 
on  either  side  of  the  pointed  chin  were  rounder  than 
they  had  been,  though  under  all  this  exterior  of  severe 
decision  was  an  easiness  of  manner  and  a  calmness  of 
expression. 

"You  must  not  let  the  perpetrator  go  unpunished — 
you  must  not — you  must  find  her." 

Had  Julia  looked,  she  would  have  read  that  a  settled 
determination  had  fixed  itself  within  the  brain  of  Mad- 
ame Nitolsk. 

"Fortunate  for  you,"  she  went  on,  without  giving 
Julia  time  to  reply,  "that  you  have  such  a  friend  as  Mad- 
ame Cinati.  But."  she  added,  and  her  inflection  formed 
a  question,  "I  thought  she  was  in  Vienna." 

"She  was,  but  she  returned  to  Paris,  to  go  to  Amer- 
ica— to  New  York." 

"Well,"  mused  Madame  Nitolsk,  "she  is  truly  a 
lovely  woman.  And  you  use  these  beautiful  horses 
whenever  you  choose?"  she  added,  quizzingly. 

"Yes,  I  can  'phone  for  the  horses  whenever  I  wish 
to  use  them,  but  I  often  use  the  ordinary  cabs." 

"I  pronounce  you  very  fortunate,  indeed,"  said  Mad- 
ame Nitolsk.  "Now,  in  the  absence  of  your  very  kind 
friend,  Madame  Cinati,  do  allow  me  to  be  a  little  bit 
your  good  friend;  for,  dear  Miss  Pembroke,  I  love  you, 
both  for  your  own  dear  self  and  for  the  sake  of  my 
child,  Adino,  who  loves  you,  and  calls  you  'The  Angel.' 
You  will  make  us  so  verry  happy  if  you  come  and  dine 
with  us  at  six  this  evening.  Will  you  accept  this  very 
informal  invitation  ?" 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"I  thank  you  very  much,  indeed,  and,  were  I  at  lib- 
erty, I  should  certainly  avail  myself  of  the  pleasurable 
hour,  but  I  dine  with  the  Trents  this  evening." 

Ah!  Lieutenant  Trent  and  Hampton  Alverstone,  by 
your  acquaintance  with  the  woman — Madame  Nitolsk — 
through  your  carelessness  in  not  keeping  to  her  place  a 
woman  of  Madame  Nitolsk's  character — you  paved  the 
way  for  her  intimate  association  with  the  noble  Amer- 
ican girl,  whom  it  was  your  duty  to  shield,  instead. 

"Dine  at  the  Trents  another  evening,"  said  Madame 
Nitolsk,  stiffly. 

"Oh!"  quickly  replied  Julia,  for  she  understood  that 
Madame  Nitolsk  was  hurt,  thinking,  no  doubt,  that  she 
had  been  slighted.  "There  will  be  no  guest  but  me." 

"Indeed !"  again  exclaimed  Madame  Nitolsk.  "When 
do  you  go  there  ?  Perhaps  you  can  dine  with  me  first." 

"No,  I  dine  at  the  Trents,  at  six-thirty." 

"Well,,  then,  you  could  not,  of  course,"  replied  Mad- 
ame Nitolsk,  slowly,  and  evidently  thinking  deep,  deep 
thoughts. 

Julia  looked  at  her  and  then  seemed  to  draw  back, 
as  if  retreating  within  herself. 

Madame  Nitolsk  saw  it  all  and  tried  to  be  pleasant. 

"You  may  go  off  to  India,  as  the  wife  of  the  gay 
Lieutenant,"  she  said,  laughing  lightly. 

Julia  retreated  farther  within  herself  at  the  hard  rasp 
in  the  tone  of  the  widow's  voice,  but  she  made  no  answer 
to  Madame  Nitolsk,  for  she  started  at  the  sound  of  an 
inner  voice,  which  seemed  to  say,  in  tones  of  her  grand- 
mother— in  the  long  ago — "Be  wise  as  serpents  and  harm- 
less as  doves."  What  was  that?  And  why  had  this 
admonition  come  just  then — just  at  this  moment!  Per- 
haps, when  the  mists  are  rolled  away,  Julia  will  know 
that  unseen  spirits  whispered  the  warning,  and  that  un- 

315 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

seen  spirits  whisper  a  warning  at  every  fatal  moment, 
and  that  the  reason  one  ever  fails  of  preservation  from 
evil  influence  is  only  that  one  fails  to  hear — at  least  to 
obey — the  tintinnabulations  borne  in  upon  one's  inner  self. 
And  this  obedience  makes  the  difference  between  the 
one  who  treads  intricate  and  dangerous  passages  and  that 
other  one,  who  is  foiled,  if  not  lost,  at  every  turn. 

Julia  laid  her  hands,  one  upon  another,  upon  her 
muff  and  was  very  still  for  a  little  time.  Madame  Nitolsk 
sat  looking  at  her,  but  Julia  was  all  unconscious  of 
the  attentions  the  widow  was  then  giving  her — Madame 
Nitolsk,  who,  were  she  in  an  Irish  setting,  might 
pass  for  an  Irish-American  or  a  child  of  the  Em- 
erald Isle ;  Madame  Nitolsk,  who,  were  she  in  a  Span- 
ish setting,  by  the  brightening  of  her  large,  black  eyes, 
could  easily  pass  for  a  South  American,  or  a  daughter 
of  the  Spanish  Peninsula;  Madame  Nitolsk,  who,  in  her 
vivacious  moments,  by  adding  a  touch  of  timidity,  was 
a  real  French  beauty;  and  when  the  dreamy  and  lan- 
guorous effects  pervaded  not  only  the  eye  but  the  body 
of  Madame  Nitolsk,  she  could  easily  pass  for  a  woman 
of  the  Orient,  but  in  this  last  setting  Julia  Pembroke 
had  never  seen  her — if  she  had,  she  would  not  at  this 
moment  have  been  speeding  down  Boulevard  Haussmann 
in  company  with  this  Madame  Nitolsk. 

After  sitting  in  silence  for  a  little  time,  Madame 
Nitolsk  said,  coaxingly,  as  she  laid  her  left  hand  on  top 
of  Julia's,  which  were  clasped  upon  her  muff:  "Do  send 
the  Trents  regrets  and  dine  with  me.  Their  home  is 
gay,  bright,  happy;  and  mine — is  so  sad — so  desolate — •. 
so  lonely — after  the  destruction  of  our  family  fireside. 
Won't  you,  dearest  Julia,  come  with  me?  Adinino,  my 
baby,  would  be  so  glad  to  see  you — his  Christmas  dinner 
would  be  one  he  should  remember,  I  know." 

"I  am  sorry,  but  I  can  not,"  said  Julia,  sadly. 

316 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"Is  that  your  final?" 

"I  am  sure  I  have  no  plausible  excuse  to  offer  the 
Trents." 

Madame  Nitolsk  was  angered  in  her  disappointment, 
but  beyond  a  slight  piquancy  of  manner,  not  for  an  in- 
stant did  she  forget  herself. 

"I  thought  it  a  rule  of  the  master  that  his  pupils 
should  not  be  in  society,"  Madame  Nitolsk  said,  almost 
petulantly. 

"I  have  had  little  of  society,"  said  Julia,  "and  I  should 
not  go  to  the  Trents  were  it  not  that  I  go  informally,  for 
we  are  especially  good  friends." 

Madame  Nitolsk  now  turned  her  eyes  out  upon  the 
street,  for  she  felt  that  Julia  must  be  higher  in  the  re- 
gard of  Lieutenant  Trent  than  she  was ;  and,  though  she 
cared  nothing  for  him,  except  for  the  use  she  might 
make  of  him,  she  yet  jealously  guarded  the  seat  of  honor 
in  his  regard. 

There  was  a  lull  in  the  conversation,  and  neither 
moved  to  break  the  silence.  Suddenly  Madame  Nitolsk, 
turning  her  head  away  from  the  window  and  looking 
ahead  of  her  at  the  prancing  horses,  said :  "What  a  per- 
fect livery  Madame  Cinati  has !  Does  she  keep  these 
beautiful  horses  at  the  stables  ?" 

"Oh,  no;  she  has  them  kept  in  her  own  court-yard. 
Everything  belonging  to  Madame  Cinati  lives  in  and 
around  the  court — servants — -all." 

"Ah !  secure  as  are  mine,  then." 

"Yes,  just  the  same,  I  should  judge,"  replied  Julia. 

"Beautiful !  beautiful !"  musingly  repeated  Madame 
Nitolsk,  as  she  continued  to  look  through  the  front  win- 
dow at  the  objects  of  her  interest.  "But" — she  turned  and 
looked  at  Julia,  and  her  face  was  very  earnest — "I  be- 
lieve you  do  not  know  that  these  horses  are  very  deli- 
cate— very  sensitive.  I  am  not  a  horsewoman,  but,"  she 

317 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

went  on  in  an  explanatory  manner,  "I  know  something 
of  horses,  and  I  would  not  take  these  out  when  the  night 
is  bad." 

.  "Oh !  I  never  do  take  them  out  when  the  night  is 
bad,  even  threatening;  but  when  the  weather  is  like  this 
I  have  no  fear  for  them." 

Madame  Nitolsk  looked  quickly  at  Julia,  but  she  of- 
fered no  comment  to  the  words,  spoken  in  decided  tones. 
Then  she  lowered  her  gaze,  and  the  dark  crescents,  which 
fell  on  the  deep  olive  of  the  smooth  cheeks,  were  the 
only  shadows  on  the  perfect  face. 

Here  Julia  brought  out  the  present,  hidden  away  in 
the  folds  of  tissue  paper  within  her  muff,  saying:  "Mad- 
ame Nitolsk,  you  will  forgive  me,  I  know.  I  must  ask 
you  to  bear  with  me,  for  I  can  not  accept  so  costly  a 
gift  as  this."  She  passed  the  case  to  Madame  Nitolsk, 
who  took  it  without  protest,  and  then  said : 

"I  respect  your  convictions  upon  such  matters;  per- 
haps it  was  more  costly  than  need  be;  but  I  must  make 
you  some  little  gift  on  this  beautiful  Christmas  day,  if 
only  for  the  gratitude  I  feel  for  the  delight  your  charm- 
ing personality  affords  me.  You  do  not  know  the  lone- 
liness of  my  life,  Miss  Pembroke.  Really,  I  have  al- 
ways had  a  sad,  isolated  life.  True,  our  home  in  Cal- 
cutta was  always  thronged  with  guests,  but  I  was  as 
much  alone  in  that  crowd  as  if  I  had  been  alone  in  Si- 
berian wastes." 

She  succeeded  in  communicating  the  expressed  senti- 
ment as  the  real  condition  of  Madame  Nitolsk,  so  that, 
when  unclasping  a  bracelet  from  around  her  shapely 
wrist,  she  held  it  out  to  Julia,  saying:  "Come!  as  true 
friends  you  will  not  refuse.  It  is  not  much,  but  it  is 
mine,  and  when  you  see  it  you  -can  know  that  it  be- 
longed to  a  woman  who  disbelieved  in  her  kind  until  she 
met  you.  Ah!  Julia — I  mean  Miss  Pembroke — you  do 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

not  know  how  much  you  have  been  to  me.  Come,  you 
will  not  refuse  this  little  bracelet."  Julia  acquiesced, 
without  the  slightest  protestation,  and  put  out  her  arm  to 
Madame  Nitolsk,  who  clasped  the  jeweled  band  around 
her  wrist,  saying: 

"In  the  devotion  of  true  friendship." 

She  uttered  the  words  slowly,  and  they  were  very 
impressive.  Though  the  bracelet  consisted  of  only  five 
very  delicate  threads  of  Roman  gold,  they  were  held  in 
place  by  five  jeweled  bars,  each  bar  filled  with  tiny  dia- 
monds and  rubies — the  finest  stones.  Altogether  it  was  a 
very  costly  present,  and  not  at  all  such  a  one  as  Julia 
thought  it  to  be. 

She  seemed  mystified  with  the  words  of  Madame 
Nitolsk,  else,  she  thought,  that  since  she  had  refused  the 
beautiful  necklace  for  reasons  of  value,  the  bracelet  must 
be  comparatively  inexpensive. 

As  the  carriage  stopped  in  front  of  Madame  Nitolsk's 
home,  Julia  said : 

"This  is  for  Madame  Nitolsk,"  and  she  handed  her 
the  antique  Venetian  vase ;  "and  this  is  for  my  dear  little 
friend  Adino,"  and  she  smiled  and  put  the  Teddy  bear 
toward  Madame  Nitolsk. 

She  accepted  both  the  presents,  and,  with  as  gracious 
ceremony  as  if  she  prized  them  beyond  all  other  gifts  she 
had  ever  known,  and  this  she  would  have  done  had  she 
been  a  real  woman  and  capable  of  understanding  the 
heart  value  which  a  Christmas  gift  should  carry. 

Madame  Nitolsk  took  out  her  kerchief  and  raised  it 
to  her  eyes,  while  she  said,  in  a  tremulous  voice:  "You 
are  a  dear,  good  girl.  I  love  you." 

Then  she  lifted  Julia's  hand  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it, 
and  stepped  down  and  away  from  the  carriage,  across 
the  sidewalk  into  her  home. 

There,  where  was  elegance  most  palatial. 

319 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A  priest,  vested  with  the  long,  close-fitting  ecclesias- 
tical habit  of  his  order,  sat  writing  at  a  clumsy,  unpaint- 
ed  wooden  table  in  a  small  room.  The  ceiling  was  high 
and  vaulted.  The  uncovered  gray  stone  wall  and  floor 
were  dark  with  moisture.  A  small  wooden  chair,  the 
table  at  which  the  priest  wrote,  two  beds,  though  with- 
out mattresses,  and  which,  in  reality,  were  simply 
benches  (some  old  woolen  robes  serving  as  pillows  and 
coverings)  composed  the  scanty  furnishings  of  the  room. 
In  a  niche  in  the  wall  hung  a  crucifix,  and  beside  the 
crucifix  burned  two  waxen  candles.  A  plain,  uncush- 
ioned  priedieu  stood  before  this  little  oratory.  A  pot  of 
live  coals  served  to  take  the  chill  from  the  room.  Two 
small  windows,  so  placed  as  to  have  given  the  impression 
from  the  outside  that  they  followed  a  staircase,  were 
above  the  table. 

Perhaps  there  had  even  been  a  staircase  here  once 
upon  a  time,  but  more  probably  their  placement  agreed 
with  the  arrangement  of  the  windows  somewhere  else 
in  the  structure.  This  humble  room  was  evidently  in  a 
tower,  for  its  shape  was  circular,  and  it  must  have  been 
high  up,  for  birds  gathered  in  the  deep  sills  of  the  small 
windows,  and  every  now  and  then  took  their  flight  down- 
ward. The  priest,  still  bent  far  over  the  table,  steadily 
continued  to  write.  Six  or  seven  large  sheets  of  writing 
paper,  closely  written  in  a  fine  French  hand,  lay  on  the 
table  near  him.  Beside  the  sheets,  and  partly  on  one  of 
them,  were  two  unfolded  bankbills.  The  corners  of  the 
bills  on  top  were  raised  apart  from  the  one  underneath 
it,  for  the  top  bankbill  was  a  very  new  one.  And,  as 

320 


AN   AMERICAN    SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

by  this  separation  the  figure  one  hundred  could  be  seen 
on  the  under  bill,  these  two  blue  squares  of  linen  paper 
represented  the  rather  large  sum  of  two  hundred  francs. 

As  money  has  always  been  and  will  always  be  the 
symbol  of  wealth,,  these  two  unpretentious  pieces  of  paper 
money  looked  odd  in  their  setting  of  poverty. 

As  the  priest  finished  one  page,  he  pushed  it  aside 
and  started  on  the  next,  only  pausing  to  take  ink,  and 
even  then  his  head  did  not  raise,  and  his  eyes  remained 
on  the  writing.  His  hand  moved  quickly,  and,  like  the 
body,  showed  strength  and  energy.  And  since  the  head 
was  lowered,  the  face  was  in  such  shadow  that  it  could 
not  be  seen. 

When  he  had  written  about  halfway  down  the  page 
he  stopped,  hesitated,  and  began  to  read  over  part  of 
wh:,t  he  had  written.  Then  he  slowly  crossed  out  the 
last  line ;  but  when  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  line  he  did 
not  raise  the  pen,  but  let  it  rest  on  the  paper,  and  for 
some  time  sat  thus,  as  if  thinking,  still  bent  over  the 
table,  the  fingers  of  the  other  hand  firmly  holding  down 
the  corner  of  the  paper. 

Although  the  day  was  dark,  the  unobstructed  light  at 
such  a  height,  falling  through  the  two  small  windows, 
fully  lit  up  the  bent  form  and  the  abundant  white  hair  of 
the  priest,  for  he  was  not  tonsured. 

After  a  little  he  laid  down  the  pen,  and,  sitting  up, 
turned  his  head  and  looked  up  at  the  windows. 

The  light  came  full  in  his  face — it  was  Pierre  Agneau 
— the  clerk  at  the  apothecary  shop  of  Jean  Baptist  Alia 
Dekkah. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  when  Alia  Dekkah  had 
left  the  pharmacy,  a  little  after  midnight,  and  had  reached 
the  corner  of  the  street  where  the  rather  wide  street 
crossed  the  narrow  one,  there  had  been  a  click  up  the 
rather  wide  street,  as  of  a  strong  lock  slipped  into  its 

321 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

place.  And  Alia  Dekkah,  venal  money-dreamer  that  he 
was,  had  not  remarked  it. 

When  Alia  Dekkah  had  given  the  long  pasteboard 
box  to  the  occupant  of  the  waiting  cab  and  had  received 
from  that  occupant  a  sack  of  gold  in  return;  when  he 
had  saluted  and  the  cab  door  had  closed,  and  the  cab 
had  gone  speedily  up  the  street,  he  had  not  retraced  his 
steps  to  the  pharmacy,  as  he  had  said  he  would,  but  had 
gone  quickly  up  the  narrow  street  in  the  direction  of 
the  disappearing  cab. 

It  will  also  be  remembered  that  he  had  not  walked 
long  until  he  came  to  a  lamp-post,  whose  pedestal  was 
thicker  than  the  pedestals  of  city  lamp-posts  usually  are. 
And  that  this  pedestal  was  not  thicker  from  a  heavier 
cast  of  iron  will  be  divined  from  what  followed,  nor  that 
it  was  without  eyes.  It  had  sight,  as  many  things  which 
we  naturally  know  to  be  inanimate  have — its  eyes  were 
human  eyes.  And  as  there  is  no  sight  without  a  body, 
so  these  eyes  had  a  body,  and,  though  it  saw  everything 
which  had  passed,  and  which  was  passing  or  might  pass, 
it  was  unseen.  It  had  stuck  itself  to  the  side  of  the 
pedestal,  which  cast  a  shadow. 

That  this  wretched  being  was  more  than  interested  in 
the  man  who  was  walking  quickly  up  the  street  was  very 
apparent  from  the  stretch  of  his  neck  and  the  turnings 
of  his  head.  And  as  every  man  has  a  name  by  which 
he  is  called  or  distinguished  from  his  kind,  so  did  this 
one,  and  his  name  was  Pierre — the  innocent,  serious, 
care-conscienceless  Pierre  of  ten  o'clock  Christmas  eve; 
the  troubled,  evil-mocked,  memory-taunted,  soul-racked 
Pierre  of  the  midnight  of  that  same  night — the  van- 
quished man,  who  slow-murdered  for  money  and  sold  his 
all  to  the  Devil,  when  the  ceasing  of  the  striking  of  a 
clock  closed  up  the  channel  of  recollection — and  now,  the 
mistrustful  spy,  hunched  up,  distorted  and  flattened  like 

322 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

an  ape,  to  fool  this  iron  post  into  thinking  his  cast  shade 
its  own  reflected  shadow. 

It  was  the  clerk  in  the  apothecary  shop  of  Alia 
Dekkah.  It  wag  Pierre  Agneau,  son  of  the  concierge  of 
a  certain  apartment  building  on  the  Rue  La  Perouse. 

When  Alia  Dekkah  had  told  Pierre  that  he  would 
come  back  at  once,  Pierre  had  not  believed  him;  so  that 
was  why  Pierre  had  followed  him. 

Pierre  had  clung  to  the  iron  pedestal,  and  this 
crouched  figure  had  never  let  his  eyes  wander  from  the 
tall,  bent  shape  of  the  chemist,  who  had  now  slackened 
his  pace,  and  was  walking  hesitatingly.  Twice  he  halted, 
but  at  last  went  on,  more  rapidly  than  at  first,  as  if 
decided  on  some  premeditated  question. 

As  he  passed  a  cafe,  he  paused,  turned  back  a  few 
steps,  for  he  had  passed  the  entrance,  and,  after  looking 
down  the  narrow  street  in  the  direction  he  had  come,  he 
disappeared  through  the  doorway. 

As  the  street  was  deserted,  Pierre  glided  from  his 
hiding  place,  and  cautiously  crossed  the  narrow  side- 
walk to  its  walled  side.  He  would  go  into  the  cafe  and 
demand  his  money.  Alia  Dekkah  could  not  refuse,  in 
face  of  the  world  there.  But  he  did  not  go  toward  the 
cafe.  He  only  remained  motionless  as  the  stone  which 
was  behind  him ;  nor  did  he  look  in  that  direction.  There 
was  an  odd  light  about  his  brow  which  compared  strange- 
ly with  the  expression  of  the  jaw.  The  spot  of  flesh 
between  the  eyebrows  was  wider  than  it  had  been  a 
moment  before,  and  the  eyebrows  did  not  press  so  heav- 
ily upon  the  lids,  and  there  was  an  almost  benign  light 
in  the  eyes ;  while  the  jaw  was  set  and  hideously  squared 
and  the  deep,  dangerous  lines  around  the  mouth  belonged 
onlj  to  a  convicted  man.  The  mind  had  turned  back; 
it  trusted,  but  the  body  was  immobile  and  could  not 
change,  and  this  was  why  the  face  had  conflicted  so. 

323 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"No,  I  will  not  follow  him.  He  has  only  gone  in  there 
to  refresh  himself.  He  will  come  out  presently  and  go 
back  to  the  pharmacy." 

This  concluded,  he  turned  and  walked  quickly  back, 
around  the  corner,  to  the  small  drug  shop. 

Again  he  trusted  this  man,  and  at  this  moment  the 
evil  of  mistrust  had  left  him,  and  the  body  partially  re- 
laxed its  tension.  He  sat  down  and  waited.  The  same 
clock  which  had  been  the  monitor  of  that  gloomy  battle- 
field sounded  the  hours.  One — and  yet  no  Alia  Dekkah 
appeared.  Two — still  Pierre  waited — still  throbbed  the 
clock — the  tireless  minutes  chasing  one  another  into  the 
infinite  space  of  eternity.  Three — as  the  second  stroke 
sounded,  the  door  opened  and  Alia  Dekkah  almost  slipped 
through. 

Of  course,  the  question  of  Pierre's  money  was  opened 
at  once,  and  Dekkah,  wishing  to  keep  the  entire  sum  for 
himself,  had  decided  to  give  Pierre  not  a  sou  of  what 
he  had  promised. 

The  weekly  salary  he  thought  quite  enough  for  a  poor 
clerk,  and  he  had  been  foolish  to  be  so  generous  as  to 
promise  two  hundred  francs  for  a  trifling  service  of 
dusting  twelve  roses — the  work  of  a  few  minutes — pre- 
posterous ! 

True,  that  had  been  of  the  nature  of  a  bribe — the 
cheese  of  a  tight  trap.  The  mouse  had  bitten  and  had 
been  caught ;  the  roses  had  been  poisoned ;  the  thing  was 
passed,  and  it  was  hard  to  pay;  besides,  Alia  Dekkah 
was  not  scrupulous  about  any  promissory  note  or  act, 
unless  it  redounded  to  the  credit  of  his  coffers,  and  in 
that  he  was  not  unlike  some  of  his  nobler  fellows. 

Thus  the  conversation  had  become  a  controversy, 
which,  in  turn,  led  into  an  incensed  slur  on  character, 
followed  by  blows.  Though  Alia  Dekkah  was  physically 
better  prepared  for  such  assaults  than  was  Pierre,  he 

324 


AN   AMERICAN    SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

was  not  a  desperate  man — his  mind  was  not  gloomy — 
the  froth  of  rage  was  not  boiling  in  his  skull. 

Thus  it  was  that  after  a  few  blows  the  chemist  fell 
to  the  floor,  uttering  a  cry  that  was  indistinguishable,  on 
account  of  the  gurgling  sound  as  of  passing  air  that 
escaped. 

Pierre's  hands  were  vised  around  the  throat  of  the 
fallen  man.  His  nails  dug  into  the  flesh.  The  face  of 
the  old  chemist  became  purple  and  it  swelled  quickly  into 
a  bloated,  unsightly  thing. 

Then  Pierre  released  his  grip  and  stared  at  the  help- 
less mass  of  flesh  at  his  feet.  He  was  not  a  hardened 
criminal,  though  he  had  poisoned  an  unknown  person 
and  choked  a  man  in  the  short  space  of  a  few  hours. 

He  revolted  at  what  he  had  done.  Why  had  he  done 
it?  A  great  fear  seized  upon  him.  It  shook  the  very 
marrow  in  his  bones.  What  should  he  do  if  he  should 
be  found  here?  He  would  be  taken  and  executed.  He 
rushed  to  the  door,  opened  it,  shut  it  quickly  behind  him, 
and  ran  at  full  speed  in  the  direction  of  the  Rivoli.  As 
he  crossed,  diagonally,  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  the 
lights  from  the  many  lamps  made  a  large  mirror  of  the 
smooth,  white  pavement;  for  it  had  been  raining,  and 
rain,  like  imagination,  reflects  the  color  and  form  of  what 
is  near  it. 

As  Pierre  ran,  his  shadow  followed  him  on  all  sides, 
and  he  was  so  fearful  of  these  moving  shadows  that  he 
stopped  every  now  and  then  and  stared  at  the  glistening, 
white  asphalt  around  him.  He  could  not  think.  He  had 
no  brain.  A  frenzy  possessed  him.  He  was  actuated  by 
instinct,  not  by  thought;  for  the  slimy  waters  of  crime, 
had  stagnated  in  his  brain  and  his  mind  was  polluted. 

When  he  had  crossed  the  immense  paved  square  he 
dashed  headlong  up  the  quay.  He  did  not  slacken  this 

325 


AN  AMERICAN    SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

onward  rush  until  he  'had  passed  the  bridge,  Alexan- 
der III. 

He  stopped  suddenly  and  ran  his  hands  wildly  through 
his  hair.  He  looked  around  him  and  the  eyes  glanced 
loosely  in  the  head. 

Where  was  he  going?  Pierre  was  going  to  his  moth- 
er's. But  the  murderer  could  not.  He  had  not  reflected. 
He  had  choked  a  man,  and  in  his  fright  he  had  thought 
of  nothing  but  safety,  for  he  was  yet  innocent,  and  inno- 
cence seeks  refuge — only  crime  concealment.  He  reeled, 
staggered  backwards  and  sank  limp  on  the  parapet  which 
follows  the  side  of  the  quay. 

Heavy  clouds  hung  near  the  earth.  They  were  as 
gloomily  oppressive  as  they  were  black,  but  they  shifted 
every  now  and  then,  and  the  blue  of  a  vaulty  heaven,  lit 
by  the  lights  of  far-off  spheres,  shone  out,  down  upon 
the  silent  night  of  the  slumbering  earth.  The  moon  had 
made  gold  the  lining  of  the  darkest  cloud,  and  the  moon- 
beams shot  from  under  the  thick  blackness  of  this  wind- 
borne  vapor  and  weaved  below  the  mystic  measures  of 
their  own  fantasic  dance,  on  the  smooth  crest  of  the  deep 
waters  of  the  Seine.  There  were  eddies,  too;  vortexes 
of  silver  light,  which  pierced  the  green  water  like  com- 
ets that  did  not  disappear,  but  ( lingered  as  if  to  woo 
the  secret  bottom  of  the  river's  bed,  and  in  their  lighted 
paths,  reflect  the  weed-entangled  treasures  on  the  clear 
water  of  the  river's  crest. 

Quiet  wrapped  this  fair  corner  of  the  city  in  the  cloak 
of  night — the  quays  were  deserted,  and  so  were  the  light- 
ed bridges. 

Sometimes  a  faint  tinkle  and  the  weary  patter  of  a 
horse's  feet  sounded  on  the  near  by  Cours-la-Reine.  An 
occasional  straggler  crossed  the  great  bridge  of  Alexan- 
der III  and  leaned  far  over  the  side  and  looked  down 
into  the  swift,  green  current. 

326 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

A  policeman  moved  watchfully  on  his  beat  farther 
down  the  quay.  The  clear  whistle  of  a  gamin  floated 
up  the  Seine  on  the  soft  night  air. 

Morning  had  already  come — night  had  gone.  The 
green-eyed  toad  of  debauchery  had  squinted  his  lids  over 
his  heavy  eyes  and  hopped  off  under  the  dark,  dank  slab 
of  his  retreat.  The  snake  of  crime  had  curled  himself 
up,  too,  in  the  wineglass  of  lecherous  pleasures,  and  the 
urchin  of  Paris  was  returning  to  hie  haunt  in  the  old 
city  which  has  for  its  center  that  sublime  monument  of 
man's  toil  to  Faith — the  ancient  Cathedral  of  Notre 
Dame. 

The  tune  still  went  on — he  was  singing  now ;  it  was 
a  song  of  the  street ;  it  had  the  dust  of  a  dancing  garden 
in  its  rhythm  and  the  scum  of  human  intellect  in  its 
amorous  equivocated  verse. 

The  stone  buildings — the  dwelling  houses  of  Paris — 
were  still  and  unlighted,  save  where  the  moon  burnished 
the  wet  surface  of  the  roofs  and  silhouetting  the  chimney 
pots  made  cylindric  mirrors.  To  the  west  the  minarets  of 
the  Trocadero  raised  in  the  enchanted  grace  of  the 
Orient  against  the  blackness  of  the  Parisian  sky.  The 
interlaced  ironwork  of  the  Tower  of  Eiffel  cut  the 
thickness  of  the  clouds  a  little  to  the  south.  Farther 
on  the  wide  gilded  dome  of  the  Invalides  caught  the 
light  of  the  twice-reflected  sun  and  sent  it  back,  thrice  love- 
lier than  it  had  come,  while  close  beside,  the  towers  of 
Ste.  Clotilde  lifted  nobly  to  heaven  their  Gothic  spires. 

The  cool,  searching  wind  of  the  morn  had  begun  to 
blow,  and  the  naked  branches  of  the  trees  were  sighing, 
for  it  was  Christmas  morn — it  was  winter.  The  gold  of 
the  moon  had  paled  to  a  silver,  and  the  stars  were  grow- 
ing small  and  blinked  more  than  during  the  first  hours  of 
the  night.  And  yet  Pierre  did  not  stir. 

327 


AN  AMERICAN    SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

He  had  experienced  one  of  those  shocks  from  which 
man  rarely  recovers.  He  had  believed  himself  th'e  ag- 
gressed, when  suddenly  he  found  himself  the  aggressor 
in  the  eye  of  the  world. 

And  where  is  the  man  whose  convictions  can  form  a 
moated  wall  against  the  slurs  of  human  tongues  ? 

He  was  a  felon,  but  something  within  him — some- 
thing that  speaks  to  us  when  we  do  wrong  or  when  we 
lean  near  the  abyss  of  evil — God — told  him  he  was  not. 
All  of  a  sudden  he  began  to  shake  convulsively.  His 
body  lifted  from  the  parapet  while  his  hands  clung  to  the 
wall,  and  then  the  stupor  seized  him  again  and  he  fell 
down  over  the  smooth  stone  of  the  wall.  At  last  he 
woke.  The  argentine  reflection  of  the  moon  in  the  deep 
water  below  the  parapet  shone  full  in  his  face.  His 
bloodshot  eyes  opened  wide  and  the  colorless  lips  gaped. 
He  uttered  a  cry,  but  no  sound  came.  It  was  the  face 
of  Alia  Dekkah.  He  was  laughing  at  him  from  the  bot- 
tom of  hell.  His  face  was  twisted,  distorted,  shapeless 
as  when  Pierre  had  left  him  senseless  upon  the  floor  of 
the  pharmacy.  He  drew  back  from  the  wall  and  stared 
at  the  dark  bank  of  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  and 
for  one  moment  he  saw  nothing  but  the  stone  embank- 
ment. Gradually  everything  inanimate  took  on  human 
shape — formed  faces — many  faces — thousands  of  faces. 

Pierre  half  closed  his  eyes — still  they  grew — they  were 
everywhere — they  were  all  about  him.  It  wras  the  head 
of  the  old  chemist — he  was  grinning — his  yellow  teeth 
ground  together. 

The  unhappy  man  glanced  about  him  with  one  fright- 
ened look — a  look  which  only  sees  through  the  twisted 
windows  of  the  imagination ;  and  he  started  to  run  down 
the  quay.  He  ran  straight  ahead ;  he  did  not  look  round, 
for  terror  cramped  his  reason.  When  he  had  passed  two 
bridges  and  had  followed  the  bend  of  the  river,  he  came 

328 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

to  the  bridge  of  Solferino.  He  stopped  and  looked  across 
at  the  enclosure  of  the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries.  The  tops 
of  some  of  the  taller  trees  of  the  Garden  lifted  their 
bared  branches  above  the  Terrasse  des  Feuillants.  They 
were  moving.  He  wondered  why  he  had  run  so  fast, 
why  he  had  turned  back,  and  he  wondered  where  he  was 
going  and  where  he  was.  He  tried  to  answer  these  ques- 
tions, but  his  mind  was  thick. 

He  looked  at  the  Tuileries  and  guessed  it — the  Lux- 
embourg. He  looked  at  the  cobbled  way  and  thought  it 
the  Rue  de  Medicis.  He  looked  across  the  bridge  and 
was  puzzled,  why  a  side  street  off  the  Rue  de  Medicis 
should  have  so  many  lights. 

He  leaned  over  the  parapet  and  was  confused,  for 
Paris  has  only  one  water  and  that  is  the  Seine ;  and  the 
Rue~de  Medicis  does  not  follow  this  great  water  way. 

Just  then  his  eyes  rested  on  a  lamp-post,  which  stood 
directly  in  front  of  where  he  had  stopped.  Everything 
came  back  to  him  with  the  rush  of  a  great  tidal  wave — 
the  place  where  he  was  and  the  cause  of  his  torment  and 
flight. 

He  was  Pierre  Agneau.  He  had  killed  a  man  with 
his  sins  broadcast  to  heaven.  He  was  standing  on  the 
Quai  des  Tuileries.  It  was  after  midnight.  No  one  was 
around. 

The  Seine  was  very  near  him.  The  lap  of  the  deep 
green  waters  far  below  gurgled  in  his-  ears — it  sur- 
rounded him,  it  numbed  his  feelings,  it  lulled  his  mind,  it 
soothed  his  troubled  sight,  it  whispered  to  his  tormented 
soul, — "Wanderer,  seek  my  depths ;  there  alone  is  rest." 

He  would  drown  himself  and  the  agony  of  life  would 
be  wiped  out  forever — the  blank  of  the  unknown  en- 
ticed him. 

If  he  lived  on,  if  he  should  hide  himself  forever  from 
the  world,  he  could  not  hide  himself  from  Heaven,  he 

329 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

could  not  dig  out  his  conscience.  God  was  within  him, 
but  if  he  died,  if  he  sank  into  the  silent  waters  of  the 
Seine,  then  he  would  be  dead  and  consciousness  would 
have  ceased.  His  eyes  would  see  no  more  horrid  shapes. 
His  body  would  feel  no  more  uncanny  clutches  from  the 
grave.  His  mind  would  not  torment 'him,  for  it  would 
not  think.  The  fishes  would  eat  the  flesh  and  the  wet 
frame  would  serve  as  a  finny  retreat.  The  seaweed  and 
rubbish  of  a  river  bed  would  wrap  around  the  bones, 
but  Pierre  would  feel  no  pain,  no  anguish,  no  remorse, 
he  would  be  at  peace — 

Peace !  would  there  be  peace  in  suicide  ? — would  he 
vanish  into  an  infinitude  of  oblivion?  Was  death  as 
painless,  as  senseless,  as  remorseless,  as  sweet,  as  pro- 
found as  the  sleep  of  infancy  ? 

But  would  Pierre  die  with  his  body?  Would  what 
tormented  him  die?  That  which  makes  birth  attractive, 
and  death  repellant — that  all — that  which  is  the  real 
self — the  God  in  man — the  soul.  No,  it  is  immortal. 
Alas !  where  was  peace,  if  life  could  not  give  it,  if  death 
did  not  hold  it?  Did  the  vast  unknown,  the  hereafter, 
offer  it?  Maybe  heaven  did ;  but  Paradise  was  for  blessed 
souls ;  his  was  an  accursed  one,  twice  stabbed  with  the 
knife  of  crime.  His  place  was  where  the  blue,  phosphoric 
light  lit  up  the  cavern  of  evil;  where  caldrons  bubbled 
with  the  stews  of  vices,  barkened  down  from  earth;  a 
place  where  witches  screeched  and  demons  hooted. 

So  real  was  this  conceived  inferno,  that  the  miser- 
able Pierre  believed  that  he  saw  a  cloud  of  brimstone 
belch  from  out  a  pot,  and  in  the  blast  of  smoke  the  face 
of  the  old  chemist  appeared  and  grinned  again  at  him, 
as  it  had  done  in  the  water  of  the  Seine. 

"Oh !  infamous  wretch  that  I  am,  to  send  a  soul  into 
such  eternal  horror !" 

330 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

It  was  an  internal  exclamation  cried  out  in  the  »oli- 
tude  of  the  frenzied  man's  brain. 

"Unhappy  I ;  peace  is  not  more  mine." 

He  had  been  walking  all  the  time  this  mental  chaos 
had  been  going  on,  and  when  he  at  last  awoke  from  the 
hideous  nightmare  he  was  leaning  over  the  wall  of  the 
bridge  of  Solferino,  looking,  without  seeing,  into  the 
river  below. 

The  sound  of  footsteps  made  him  look  back.  Some 
one  was  coming  toward  him.  It  was  a  policeman — he 
was  coming  to  take  him  to  prison.  Without  waiting  to 
see  if  what  he  had  surmised  was  true,  he  turned  and 
walked  rapidly  in  the  opposite  direction.  When  he  had 
gained  the  south  side  of  the  river  and  was  partly  hidden 
by  the  parapet  of  the  south  embankment,  he  turned  to 
make  sure  if  the  man  were  still  following  him.  The 
policeman  came  on,  and  evidently  he  was  searching  for 
the  man  who  had  been  leaning  over  the  Pont  de  Solferino. 

Pierre  could  see  his  face  in  the  bright  lights  of  the 
bridge  and  he  seemed  peering  into  the  darkness  of  the 
south  side  of  the  river,  where  Pierre  had  disappeared. 
There  was  only  one  hope  of  escape,  the  narrow  winding 
streets  of  the  quarter  he  now  found  himself  in. 

He  crossed  the  quay  and  turned  down  one  of  these 
small  streets.  He  listened  for  footsteps,  but  everything 
was  silent.  No  one  followed.  He  wandered  on.  He  did 
not  know  where  he  was  except  that  he  was  on  the  south 
side  of  the  Seine,  past  the  bridge  of  Solferino,  and  that 
meant  that  he  was  near  the  heart  of  the  Latin  Quarter. 
He  was  not  running  now,  but  he  tread  uneasily  on  the 
pavement  and  kept  close  to  the  wall  of  the  buildings. 
The  streets  seemed  deserted  and  now  and  then,  when 
some  one  did  pass,  he  would  hide  himself  in  a  dark  angle 
or  in  a  projected  shadow  and  after  he  had  watched  him 
pass  by  he  would  come  out  and  walk  on. 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

He  was  like  all  evil — cunning. 

Why  he  walked  thus,  and  how  long,  he  never  knew. 
He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  buried  and  had  gotten  out  of 
the  grave.  What  had  happened  from  twelve  until  now 
had  been  the  unfounded  fears  of  a  dead  man.  It  was  all 
too  hideous  to  be  real,  for  he  had  seen  inferno,  and  Alia 
Dekkah  was  there. 

As  a  clock  in  a  tower  was  striking  the  hour  of  four, 
the  wretched  man  was  still  walking  aimlessly.  He  had 
just  turned  the  corner  off  a  dingy  street  and  was  follow- 
ing the  line  cut  by  a  high  wall  on  the  sidewalk.  At  equal 
distances  the  wall  extended  in  stout  squares  out  upon 
the  narrow  sidewalk  and  the  shadows  cast  by  the  side 
of  these  squares  into  the  recesses  they  thus  formed  were 
very  dark.  All  at  once  the  wall  ended  and  a  high  iron 
fence  loomed  up  in  its  stead.  Through  the  grating  could 
be  seen  a  flight  of  steps,  and  beyond  the  steps  a  stone 
pile  rose  up  indiscernible  in  the  darkness  of  the  morn. 
This  was  the  church  and  the  wall,  the  enclosure  of  the 
cloister.  If  Pierre  had  looked  up  he  would  have  seen 
two  shadowy  spiral  forms  painted  against  the  starlit 
blue  of  the  sky;  but  the  miserable  man  did  not,  for  the 
place  of  heaven  is  above,  and  involuntarily,  to  look  up 
is  to  be  hopeful — is  to  trust;  and  since  that  unfathom- 
able principle  lies  deep,  it  is  not  to  be  shammed,  for  trust 
is  the  cellar  of  the  soul. 

He  had  just  passed  the  iron  gate,  when  he  heard  a 
voice  exclaim :  "Pierre,  Pierre,  is  that  you  ?" 

He  started,  but  he  did  not  stop ;  he  only  quickened  his 
pace.  Again  came  the  gentle  call.  He  knew  that  voice. 
He  stopped,  looked  round  and  saw  the  frocked  figure 
of  an  old  priest  coming  quickly  after  him.  The  light 
from  a  street  lamp  shone  full  in  the  old  man's  face.  It 
was  Father  Frangois — the  priest  who  had  taught  him 
his  Latin  in  the  monastery,  fourteen  years  before,  when 

332 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Pierre  was  a  child  of  twelve.  All  the  recollections  of 
his  childhood  returned  to  him ;  for  memory  is  the  tide  of 
human  life.  It  covers  up  the  dry  sand  of  the  mind;  it 
digs  out  the  coral  of  past  pleasure  and  polishes  off  the 
grime  of  every  day  action  on  the  broad  water  sleeve  of 
the  sea  nymph — Fancy.  It  gathers  up  the  seaweed  of 
sorrow  and  floats  it  on  the  strong  water  of  its  current; 
it  hunts  out  the  lurking  cave  where  lies  the  ill-committed 
deeds  of  human  life  and  sends  them  out  to  writhe  broad- 
cast before  the  minds  keen  eye,  and  makes  of  man  a 
dreamer,  if  not  a  coward. 

Pierre  told  the  old  priest  of  his  need  of  two  hun- 
dred francs.  He  told  him  how  that  the  chemist  had 
promised  him  the  two  hundred  francs,  if  he  dusted  one 
dozen  roses,  and  that  after  he  had  prepared  the  roses, 
Alia  Dekkah  had  refused  him  the  money.  Pierre  did 
not  tell  Father  Frangois  that  he  had  choked  the  chemist; 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  do  so.  Father  Frangois 
had  told  Pierre  to  come  with  him,  and  he  would  try  and 
help  him.  Thus  the  saint  and  culprit,  side  by  side,  had 
crossed  the  Seine,  and  had  walked  all  the  way  to  the  little 
church,  which  had  a  circular  room  in  one  of  its  towers — 
the  church  near  the  height  of  the  Butte  -Montmartre 
— the  church  where  Pierre  now  sat  writing  to  his  mother. 
While  the  priest  had  slept,  Pierre  on  his  little  bench  had 
remained  wide-awake.  Through  the  narrow  window  he 
had  seen  the  starlight  fade;  he  had  heard  a  sparrow  on 
the  high-up  sill  welcome  the  Christmas  dawn  with  his 
hymeneal  chant.  He  had  seen  one  streak  of  light  enter 
the  darkness  of  the  sky  and  then  another  and  another; 
and  so  amalgamate  that  an  opaque-grayness  formed 
where  once  the  blackness  of  the  night  had  spread.  When 
the  sun  had  risen  Pierre  was  still  sitting  on  the  wooden 
bench,  bent  forward,  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees,  his 
hands  clasped  fiercely,  his  bloodshot  eyes  still  staring  at 

333 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

the  high-up  window,  but  the  hair  had  turned  snow-white, 
and  there  was  a  bruised  line  below  the  nether  lip,  where 
the  teeth  had  sunk  during  the  agony  of  the  past  night. 

He  was  a  strong  man,  though  yet  in  the  early  season 
of  his  twenties,  and  with  all  this  melee  of  emotions — this 
tempest  of  struggles  against  remorse — he  had  not  wept — 
no  tear  had  fallen  to  soothe  his  troubled  mind. 

After  a  little  the  priest  had  risen  and  the  two  had 
gone  down  to  the  early  services.  About  noon  Pierre 
returned  to  the  small,  circular  room.  He  was  alone,  for 
the  old  priest  had  gone  to  ask  a  bishop — a  friend  of  his — 
to  lend  him  the  money.  Soon  the  heavy  latch  lifted  and 
the  old  priest  stood  before  Pierre  with  two  bankbills  on 
his  outstretched  palm. 

It  was  too  much — that  money — the  price  of  his  soul — 
there  it  was  before  him — a  holy  man  held  it  to  him — 
was  it  true? 

This  was  another  dream,  and  a  seraph  of  heaven 
stood  before  him.  He  grew  giddy.  Everything  wheeled 
about  him.  He  burst  into  an  uncontrolled  laugh — the 
hoarse  laugh  of  a  doomed  man,  who  sees  the  chain  of 
fate  unlinked  before  him. 

"The  money — the  two  hun" —  The  word  died  unfin- 
ished on  his  lips.  He  reeled  and  fell  senseless  to  the 
stone  floor.  When  he  awoke,  the  old  priest  was  bending 
over  him  and  there  was  a  smell  of  camphor,  which  min- 
gled with  the  mold  of  the  dampness  that  clung  to  the 
walls.  Then  Pierre  had  told  Father  Francois  that  he 
wanted  to  become  a  priest,  and  had  asked  to  be  permit- 
ted to  put  on  the  vestment  now.  The  old  priest  had 
smiled,  but  had  consented ;  and  Pierre  had  dressed  him- 
self in  a  shabby  frock,  worn  by  time,  eaten  by  moths 
and  coated  with  the  slime  of  humidity. 

When  Pierre  had  finished  the  letter  he  rose,  walked 
orer  to  where  the  humble  oratory  was  and  knelt  down. 

334 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

It  was  the  first  prayer  which  he  had  offered  since  before 
the  clock  of  the  pharmacy  had  struck  the  hour  of  Holy 
Mass,  and  as  his  lips  moved  great  tears  gathered  in  his 
eyes  and  streamed  over  the  haggard  cheeks  and  fell  fast 
on  the  worn  vestment.  They  were  only  the  scalding 
tears  of  a  penitent,  but,  like  all  misery,  they  stained 
where  they  fell. 

After  he  had  risen  from  the  priedieu  he  stood  still 
and  looked  up  at  the  dark,  dingy,  vaulted  ceiling.  His 
hands,  palm  to  palm,  were  turned  upward,  too.  It  must 
have  been  one  of  those  internal  bursts  of  gratitude  which 
man  so  often  expresses  thus;  the  involuntary  proof  of 
an  eased  soul. 

He  had  done  wrong  and  he  had  suffered.  He  had 
been  confronted  by  those  myriads  of  specter  monsters 
which  always  lodge  in  the  mind  of  human  life,  when 
there  is  a  contradiction  in  the  brain,  when  the  soul  as 
plaintiff  rebukes  the  defending  mind.  It  is  then  that 
these  distorted  phantoms  come  out  and  murmur  unintel- 
ligible words — incomprehensible  because  they  are  too 
past,  but  none  the  less  tormenting  because  they  are  rec- 
ollections. He  had  been  haunted  and  laughed  at  by  all 
these  monsters.  He  had  scoffed  at  them.  But  it  is  as 
impossible  for  a  man  to  laugh  back  at  the  accusation  of 
his  own  brain  as  it  is  for  life  to  mock  at  the  origin  of 
evil.  They  both  redound  to  the  truth,  and  truth  is  an 
unpleasant  monopoly  when  shut  up  inside  the  skull  of  a 
self -accusing  man. 

Now  that  he  was  at  peace  with  all  these  unsightly 
specters  he  felt  a  certain  species  of  quietude,  a  bonified 
mysticism,  that  seemed  to  make  the  atmosphere  about 
him  clear.  The  pressure  of  an  indescribable  tranquillity, 
which  soothed  his  conscience. 

He  crossed  the  small  room  and  went  to  where  a 
worn  flat  hat  hung  on  a  nail.  He,  evidently,  was  going 

335 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

out,  for  he  put  on  the  hat  and  walked  toward  the  door- 
He  opened  it  and  went  out,  carefully  closing  the  door 
behind  him,  and  started  down  the  small,  winding  stair- 
case. 

As  Pierre  had  never  climbed  or  gone  down  this  stair- 
way but  three  times  before,  he  was  unacquainted  with 
its  odd  turnings,  its  small,  narrow  stones,  which  made 
a  descent  like  that  of  a  ladder.  And,  too,  the  stairs  were 
very  dark;  only  a  small,  unsteady  lamp  flickered  far 
down,  very  near  the  bottom.  As  Pierre  groped  his  way 
down  the  spiral  flight  of  stairs  he  could  easily  feel  the 
coated,  slimy,  humidity  which  covered  all  the  stones,  both 
wall  and  steps. 

At  last  he  reached  the  bottom,  and,  passing  through 
many  small,  vaulted  rooms,  circular  in  shape,  unused  and 
obviously  belonging  to  the  tower,  he  at  last  came  out 
into  the  church  proper.  The  church  was  like  many  of 
its  kind.  It  had  its  nave  flanked  with  double  aisles,  its 
chapels,  its  galleries,  its  organ,  its  choir,  its  columns, 
and  it  was  not  without  its  stained  glass.  It  had  some- 
thing about  it  very  much  like  its  mother  edifice — the 
aged  cathedral  of  Notre  Dame — but,  like  all  children,  it 
was  different ;  and,  of  course,  it  was  not  the  fault  of  this 
church  that  it  was  born  in  a  modern  century. 

Many  tall  waxen  candles  burnt  brightly  on  the  High 
Altar,  and  in  the  chapels  there  were  flickering  ones.  The 
deep  shadows,  caught  in  the  far-up  dome  and  in  the 
roofs  and  covered  ambulatories,  held  their  gloomy  as- 
pect, for  the  sunshine  which  came  through  the  windows 
was  falsely  colored.  Its  shade  was  somber,  but  maybe 
that  was  not'  so  much  an  interior  as  an  exterior  cause, 
for,  as  before  said,  the  day  was  a  dark  one,  and  when  a 
sunbeam  pierced  a  cloud  it  seemed  accidental. 

As  Pierre  reached  the  middle  of  one  of  these  double 
aisles  and  passed  one  of  the  small  chapels  which  adjoined 

336 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

this  aisle,  he  heard  a  weeping,  as  the  weeping  of  a  child, 
a  very  young  child.  He  stopped,  and,  turning  back, 
saw  the  form  of  a  young  girl  stretched  over  a  priedieu 
in  the  small  chapel  he  had  just  passed.  She  was  sob- 
bing convulsively.  She  looked  about  fourteen  years  of 
age.  Her  gay-colored,  ragged  clothes  gave  to  her  lithe, 
youthful  form  a  fantastic  aspect.  Short,  loose  chestnut 
ringlets  covered  her  head.  On  the  floor  near  the  kneel- 
ing desk  was  a  basket  of  faded  violets.  She  was  kneel- 
ing on  the  priedieu,  her  face  buried  in  her  folded  arms, 
which  rested  on  the  back  of  the  desk.  She  had  evidently 
come  to  church  to  pray,  and  had  broken  down  and  wept. 

Pierre  walked  over  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  child's 
head.  The  girl  looked  up  with  a  start  when  touched, 
but  quieted  on  seeing  the  priest  and  on  hearing  his  sooth- 
ing words.  Despite  the  tear-stained,  ashen  color  of  the 
girl's  face,  she  was  very  beautiful.  Her  type  was  of  the 
Spanish  kind,  save  for  the  irregularity  of  the  nose,  which 
was  Parisian.  The  frightened,  gazelle  eyes  were  shad- 
owed by  long,  black,  curving  lashes,  which  swept  her 
cheeks  when  she  looked  down.  The  lips  were  slightly 
parted  and  showed  a  regular  row  of  sharp,  small,  white 
teeth.  Sicilian  gold  earrings  peeped  from  the  chestnut 
ringlets,  while  around  her  pretty  neck  were  several 
strings  of  pink,  glass  beads. 

When  the  girl  looked  into  the  face  of  the  young  priest 
— Pierre — she  at  once  saw  his  sympathetic  disposition, 
and,  weighted  to  desperation  by  her  grief,  and  no  longer 
feeling  strength  to  support  her  burden  alone,  she  told 
sobbingly,  and  without  being  questioned,  the  story  of  her 
sorrow ;  how  that  she  had  stolen  and  how  it  had  all  come 
about;  how,  when  she  and  her  master  had  been  selling 
flowers  on  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  some  one  had  come, 
and,  after  buying  a  bunch  of  violets,  had  slipped  a  letter 
into  the  flower  basket  and  had  gone  away,  and  that  her 

337 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

master  had  said  they  must  go  at  once  to  Monsieur  the 
chief's. 

The  girl  told  how  that  on  the  way  to  the  chief's  her 
master  had  chuckled  and  had  said  he  wished  all  the 
boss'  customers  were  like  that — "Fifty  francs  to  carry  a 
letter  to  Monsieur  Bordet."  Then  how,  when  they  were 
passing  La  Cigale,  he  had  said  that  he  would  go  to  the 
performance  that  night  and  be  a  cockney  a  few  days. 
How,  while  he  was  gone,  she  had  read  the  letter  which 
he  had  given  her  to  hold  until  he  would  come  out. 

With  religious  precision  she  told  the  young  priest  the 
contents  of  the  letter  as  she  had  been  able  to  decipher 
it  through  the  thin,  clouded  envelope,  for  the  letter  was 
tightly  sealed.  And  then  she  went  on,  in  her  confession, 
and  told  how,  when  her  master  had  come  out  of  La 
Cigale,  he  had  gone  on  toward  the  Boulevard  Barbes, 
and,  when  at  the  corner,  he  had  left  her  to  sell  flowers 
while  he  went  to  the  chief's  house.  When  he  had  re- 
turned he  had  told  her  to  go  at  once  and  steal  a  pair 
of  gauntlets,  which  they  had  seen  a  tinter,  a  certain  Mad- 
ame Fabet,  lay  out  in  the  court  of  her  shop  early  that 
morning  as  they  passed  by. 

He  had  said :  "Madame  Fabet  will  be  at  church — no 
one  will  see  you.  Monsieur  the  chief  wants  them.  Now 
go  along  and  mind  what  I  say.  Remember  the  thongs." 

When  she  had  childishly  detailed  the  cause  of  her 
sin,  she  straightened  her  small,  lithe  body  almost  fiercely 
and  looked  at  the  young  priest.  "Ah!  mon  p&re,  I  did 
not  want  to  do  it,  but  my  master  made  me.  I  would  have 
been  beaten  if  I  had  refused.  Oh!  to  think  of  stealing 
from  this  good,  kind  woman!" 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  begun  to  speak  tears 
filled  her  eyes,  but  she  drove  them  back  and  continued: 

"Once  she  gave  me  a  puit  d  'amour,  and  another  time, 
when  I  was  selling  toy  rabbits  near  her  shop,  an  ear  of 

338 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

one  of  the  rabbits  broke  off,  and  when  I  cried  she  bought 
it,  and  she's  a  poor  woman,  for  nobody  has  much  tinting 
done  in  this  quarter.  When  I  got  to  the  court  the  gloves 
were  still  in  their  place,  drying.  I  looked  around;  there 
was  no  one — the  place  was  deserted — the  gloves  lay  very 
near  me.  Just  as  I  stretched  out  my  hand  toward  them 
a  strange  voice  right  beside  me  said:  'Lizette,  Lizette, 
don't  take  them.'  I  jumped  back  and  looked  around.  I 
saw  no  one.  I  looked  at  the  gloves.  Nobody  had 
touched  them ;  there  they  were.  Then  I  remembered  the 
cat  o'  nine  tails — I  felt  them — I  snatched  the  gloves  and 
ran.  Oh !  how  wicked  I  am !  Why  had  I  not  been  killed 
this  morning  under  the  wheel  of  that  great,  big  auto  on 
Rue  d'Amsterdam !" 

She  sobbed  so  violently  that  her  words  were  almost 
incoherent. 

"You,  holy  father,  do  not  know  what  a  life  my  people 
live ;  they  are  all  murderers,  and  now  I  am  a  thief.  Pray 
for  me,  holy  father,  that  I  may  make  the  rest  of  my  life 
as  sinless  as  yours  has  been." 

An  agonized  expression  darted  on  the  face  of  Pierre, 
and  he  moved  uneasily,  but  the  girl  did  not  see  his  emo- 
tion, for  she  had  let  her  head  fall  on  the  priedieu  and 
was  sobbing  wildly.  All  of  a  sudden  she  looked  up,  and 
in  a  hollow  voice  went  on: 

"I  have  tried  to  pray  just  now,  but  everything  laughs 
at  me.  Will  the  Ave  Maria  never  hear  me  again?" 

Pierre  did  not  hear  the  girl's  plea.  A  strange  light 
was  in  his  eye  and  the  cold  perspiration  stood  out  upon 
his  body — "That  I  may  make  my  life  as  sinless  as 
yours."  Unconsciously  this  child  of  the  street  had  struck 
the  keynote  of  the  tragedy  of  his  life.  He  heard  the 
clock  of  the  pharmacy  strike  twelve;  he  saw  the  form 
of  Alia  Dekkah  helpless  at  his  feet;  he  saw  the  green 
depths  of  the  Seine,  and  the  horrid  heads,  bodyless,  of 

339 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

Alia  Dekkah,  which  floated  everywhere  about  him.  The 
frightful  nightmare  of  inferno  was  vivid  in  his  memory. 
Sinless — a  slow-murderer  and  a  murderer — sinless? 

Suddenly  he  felt  the  hot  blood  surge  to  his  head — it 
was  the  shame  of  truth.  Was  it  just  that  he  sham  the 
part  of  sanctity?  That  he  belie  the  guileless?  Was  it 
not  infamous  that  he,  felon,  should  wear  the  cloak  of 
purity?  Was  he  not  committing  another  offense  in  the 
sight  of  Heaven?  Would  it  not  be  better  to  denounce 
himself? 

His  mind  cleared,  and  then  he  remembered  that  if 
he  could  save  this  life,  prevent  this  murder  of  which  this 
child  had  confessed,  he  might  gain  peace — balm  to  his 
remorse-eaten  soul,  and  maybe  Paradise  at  death.  Yes, 
that  would  be  far  better.  He  soothed  the  troubled  child. 
It  was  very  easy  to  do,  for  children  are  simple  of  mind. 
Let  sympathy  be  shown  in  the  eye  and  the  tongue  can 
be  dumb. 

"What  is  this?"  he  at  last  ventured  to  question,  "that 
is  to  happen  in  the  Bois — a  murder  ?" 

"Oh!  yes,"  replied  the  girl;  "that's  all  such  a  letter 
can  mean  to  Monsieur  the  chief,"  and  she  again  repeated 
what  she  had  been  able  to  read  of  the  letter:  " —  'you 

will  be  a  rich  man this  evening  Monsieur  must 

have exactly  like in  the  Bois  du  Bou- 
logne —  that  this  person  must  be  sure  dead' " 

She  caught  her  breath —  "And  making  me  steal  a  pair 
of  gauntlets — what  else  can  it  mean? — they  are  going  to 
kill  some  one." 

Pierre  now  understood  as  well  as  the  girl  did  what 
was  to  happen.  He  asked  her  where  her  people  lived 
and  she  told  him.  While  the  priest  and  the  girl  talked 
they  were  so  interested  that  neither  noticed  a  figure 
which  had  stealthily  come  into  the  church  shortly  after 
the  girl  had  commenced  her  confession,  and  which  stood 

340 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

near  the  entrance  watching  the  movements  of  the  girl 
and  the  priest. 

A  bell,  far  up  in  one  of  the  towers  of  the  church, 
sounded.  The  girl,  frightened,  leaped  to  her  feet  and 
grabbed  her  basket. 

"I  must  go.  They  didn't  know  I  came.  I'll  be  beaten 
if  I'm  out  at  this  hour." 

"Go,  my  child — you  have  no  sin."  And  with  the  bless- 
ing of  Pierre  Agneau,  the  slight,  graceful  creature  quick- 
ly and  noiselessly  left  the  chapel  and  passed  down  the 
half  of  the  long  aisle  and  was  soon  at  the  entrance.  She 
did  not  turn  and  look  back  but  only  for  one  short  mo- 
ment, when  she  crossed  herself  and  then  went  out. 

The  figure,  which  heard  this  dialogue,  glided  behind 
two  massive  columns  as  the  girl  left  the  chapel;  and 
when  the  priest  looked  after  the  child,  as  she  hesitated 
upon  the  threshold  of  the  entrance,  the  same  shadow 
that  had  flickered  unseen  on  the  stone  pavement  in  front 
of  the  small  chapel  while  the  girl  had  told  the  story  of 
her  first  theft  now  shaded  the  side  of  Pierre's  face.  But 
it  was  as  unremarked  as  it  had  been  before.  Pierre  was 
thinking  what  he  should  do — how  he  could  save  this  life. 
He  realized  that  it  must  be  done  quickly.  At  last  he  hit 
upon  a  conclusion.  Pierre  did  not  know  this  quarter, 
but  he  remembered  a  certain  police  station  which  he  and 
the  old  priest  had  passed  early  in  the  morning.  He  knelt 
and  offered  up  a  short  prayer  in  the  small  chapel. 

Pierre  had  no  sooner  passed  under  the  door  and  gone 
down  the  street,  than  the  figure  standing  behind  the  col- 
umns followed  quickly  after  him.  The  person  soon  came 
very  near  Pierre,  but  did  not  pass  him,  only  followed 
cautiously  at  a  near  distance.  . 

Pierre  walked  down  the  street  and  mailed  the  letter 
to  his  mother.  Before  he  slipped  it  into  the  box  he  kissed 
the  envelope  just  where  it  was  sealed.  A  despairing,  for- 

341 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

saken  look  came  into  his  face  as  the  white  piece  of  paper 
disappeared  into  the  box.  Then  he  went  on  to  the  corner, 
where  he  turned  right  and  went  down  a  short,  blind 
street. 

Soon  the  sound  of  footsteps  coming  quickly  behind 
him  made  Pierre  halt  and  look  around  abruptly ;  the  fear 
of  the  criminal  had  not  left  him.  But  no  one  was  coming 
after  him.  He  had  not  gone  much  farther  down  the 
short  street  when  he  again  turned  another  corner,  and 
this  time  to  the  left.  The  street  was  dark  and  dingy 
and  very  narrow.  As  Pierre  hurried  along  a  new  thought 
came  to  him — was  he  walking  into  the  guillotine?  But 
he  dismissed  it  at  once,  not  wishing  to  allow  himself  to 
be  tempted  by  it.  He  must  save  this  life  at  no  matter 
what  cost.  If  he  were  taken  by  the  police,  if  he  must 
die,  very  well.  His  mother  would  not  have  to  go  to 
prison  now.  The  money  was  already  on  the  way.  So 
he  walked  on  quickly,  thinking  only  of  gaining  the  police 
station.  He  was  not  enough  of  a  priest  to  think  of  pray- 
ing at  so  tense  a  moment.  Just  then,  as  he  was  passing 
a  dilapidated  stucco  building,  some  one  caught  him, 
dragged  him  into  a  hall,  and  heavy  doors  were  quickly 
and  noiselessly  shut. 

Many  hands  grasped  him,  and  in  the  darkness  (for 
the  interior  of  the  building  had  the  blackness  of  the  river 
Styx)  it  was  impossible  to  discern  the  number  or  the 
character  of  his  assailants.  It  was  well-nigh  out  of  the 
question  to  struggle,  since  his  captors  had  the  advantage 
in  number  over  him ;  besides,  he  had  been  taken  unawares. 
They  dragged  him — something  not  difficult  to  do — along 
a  seemingly  great  hall,  and  at  last  down  a  narrow  stairs, 
and  shoved  him  into  a  room.  The  door  was  slammed 
and  locked.  Pierre  heard  the  retreating  steps. 

The  room  was  pitch-dark.  Pierre  felt  the  floor  and 
then  the  wall,  and  he  realized  that  he  must  be  in  an  un- 

342 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

derground  cell.  His  first  thought  was  that  he  had  been 
taken  by  the  police.  And  then  he  knew  that  that  could 
not  be,  for  the  police  would  not  put  him  in  such  a  place 
as  this.  A  light  appeared  far  up  through  a  small  grating, 
and  Pierre  could  see  that  this  underground  cell  was 
shaped  like  an  immense  vat  or  well.  Evidently,  it  was 
from  this  small  barred  opening  that  the  air  came  into  this 
dungeon.  While  he  stood  gazing  at  the  spot  of  artificial 
light  the  faces  of  two  men  appeared  at  the  grating.  They 
did  not  stay  long,  but  soon  passed  on,  and  the  light  went 
with  them. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  long  enough  for  Pierre  to  recog- 
nize one  as  a  man  he  had  often  seen  selling  flowers  on 
the  Concorde'.  Then  he  understood  all.  This  man  was 
the  person  who  had  stood  in  the  shadow  of  a  column 
as  he  had  left  the  church.  Pierre  remembered  it  now. 
He  was  the  owner  of  the  child,  and  he  had  followed  her 
to  the  church,  and  had,  no  doubt,  overheard  all. 

This  man  had  followed  him,  and  it  was  his  footsteps 
that  he  had  heard  coming  behind  him  on  the  short,  blind 
street.  This  man  had  suspected  him  of  doing  just  what 
he  had  been  going  to  do — go  to  the  police. 

Of  course,  these  ruffians  were  going  to  kill  him.  But, 
then,  if  they  had  intended  to  do  that,  why  not  have  killed 
him  at  once!  A  knife,  a  moment,  and  life  would  be  ex- 
tinct. It  took  longer  to  bring  him  here  than  it  would 
to  have  killed  him.  No;  very  likely  he  was  only  to  be 
held  until  the  crime  was  perpetrated  and  then  let  out. 
Oh!  how  horrible!  To  allow  this  deed  to  be  accom- 
plished was  worse  than  death.  Could  he  not  get  out 
somewhere?  In  desperation  he  tried  different  ways,  but 
at  last  realized  how  foolish  were  such  attempts. 

The  cold  perspiration  beaded  on  his  forehead  and 
he  suffered  on,  fully  understanding  his  powerless  posi- 
tion. 

343        ' 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

With  a  helpless  sigh  he  sank  on  his  knees.  He  could 
not  give  succor  physically,  but  he  could  mentally;  it  was 
all  he  could  do — and  so  fervent  was  the  prayer,  so  violent 
the  emotions,  that  the  body  writhed  and  the  mind  quiv- 
ered like  a  man  who  is  in  a  delirium. 


344 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"No,  I  shall  not  want  him  any  more  to-day,"  said 
Alverstone,  as  he  threw  the  lines  to  the  groom,  dis- 
mounted and  turned  to  leave  the  stables. 

"But  Monsieur  will  not  walk  in  his  riding  clothes?" 

Alverstone  took  no  heed  of  the  man,  and  the  inter- 
rogating voice  went  on : 

"Monsieur  will  have  a  carriage?" 

"No !"  snapped  Alverstone,  without  stopping  or  even 
turning  his  head.  His  voice  was  harsh  and  stern,  and 
his  manner  so  severe,  so  forbidding,  that  he  was  ques- 
tioned no  further,  but  allowed  to  pass  up  the  avenue, 
which  he  had  taken  at  a  headlong  rate  of  speed — going, 
as  they  said,  like  one  possessed. 

The  men  were  not  a  little  surprised,  for  they  had 
never  known  this  American  to  behave  in  a  manner  at 
once  so  rude  and  repellant.  His  custom  was  to  remain 
in  the  stables  until  his  horse  had  been  put  away.  In 
these  stables  Alverstone  had  put  his  horse  when  he.  first 
came  to  Paris,  and  there  his  horse  stayed,  no  difference 
how  long  he  was  away  on  a  voyage  to  other  lands.  Small 
wonder,  then,  his  servants  were  taken  unawares  at  con- 
duct so  unusual. 

The  horse,  standing  so  proudly  where  his  rider  had 
dismounted,  awaited  the  customary „  pats ;  instead,  he 
heard  only  the  retreating  footsteps  of  his  master.  He 
turned  his  beautiful  head  and  watched  Alverstone  go 
down  the  incline  and  out  the  door.  Still  seemingly  sur- 
prised, and  without  moving  his  head,  he  pricked  forward 
his  ears  and  listened  to  the  footsteps  as  they  grew  fainter 

345 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

up  the  avenue,  for  Alverstone  had  passed  out  of  sight 
of  the  horse  soon  after  leaving  the  stables. 

Evidently,  the  loving  creature  felt  himself  neglected 
by  the  man,  whom  he  loved  as  only  a  gentle,  high-bred 
horse  can  love  his  master.  As  the  footsteps  were  lost 
amid  the  other  sounds  vibrating  the  air,  the  graceful,  gen- 
tle head  dropped  down,  far  down.  His  spirits  seemed  to 
be  gone  and  he  looked  like  a  sick  horse.  His  feelings  were 
hurt,  his  pride  wounded.  He  had  expected  the  usual 
pats,  the  cheery  voice,  the  words  of  praise  and  the  lump 
of  white  sugar  or  the  rosy  apple.  He  had  received  none 
of  these  proofs  of  kindness ;  instead,  he  had  been  treated 
as  if  he  were  a  poor,  forlorn  Paris  cab  horse,  and  of  that 
class  one  of  the  lowest  grade,  for  even  a  kind-hearted  cab- 
man is  prodigal  of  his  little  tokens  of  appreciation. 

No,  noble  Beauty  went  on  his  way  as  crushed  in 
spirit  as  was  his  master,  for  his  master  went  on  his  way, 
his  splendid  body  racked  from  the  tension  of  over- 
wrought nerves.  He  had  thrown  the  lines  to  the  horse 
and  the  power  to  the  nerve  force  within  his  being  at 
one  and  the  same  time ;  and  now  Alverstone  was  deposed. 
He  existed  not  at  all,  so  far  as  his  consciousness  of  men 
and  things  was  concerned. 

One  thought  alone  consumed  all  other  thoughts  within 
his  brain,  and  it  was  quite  natural  that  at  such  a  time 
he  should  forget  this  mute  friend — his  faithful  Beauty. 

On  Avenue  de  Friedland  he  had  been  rude  to  Julia. 
He  had  let  her  know  that  he  had  seen  her  and  that  he 
had  refused  to  recognize  her;  but  the  amazed,  injured 
expression  of  her  face  haunted  him  like  the  ghost  of  the 
happier  self,  and  it  seemed  he  could  not  rid  himself  of 
the  picture  of  the  havoc  he  had  caused. 

Though  he  tried  to  dislike  Julia,  he  continued  to  love 
her  with  all  the  ardor  of  his  nature,  and  he  could  cause 
her  no  pain  which  would  not  react  upon  himself  and 

346 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

eat  at  his  vitals.  After  his  ill  behavior  on  Friedland  he 
had  relented,  and,  turning  his  horse,  had  followed  Julia's 
carriage,  until  he  saw,  as  he  had  suspected,  that  she  was 
going  to  the  Signer  Novara's  house.  Then  he  dashed 
off,  taking  the  Rue  de  Courcelles,  hoping  to  make  the 
"V"  of  Courcelles  and  Murillo,  and  come  out  on  the  Rue 
Rembrandt  before  Julia's  carriage  should  pass  the  Rue 
Murillo.  He  had  then  intended  to  meet  her  again,  and 
this  time  to  make  full  amends  for  his  ill  behavior. 

But  when  he  had  come  in  sight  of  the  maestro's  door 
— his  entire  being  mellowed  by  repentance — he  had 
found  himself  confronted  by  a  scene  which  had  maddened 
him  beyond  recall. 

No,  never  again  would  he  speak  to  her.  He  had 
been  her  true  lover,  and  she  knew  what  that  meant,  when 
the  lover  was  an  American.  And  her  freedom  of  manner 
with  Lieutenant  Trent  would  be  an  exasperating  insult 
to  any  man  who  had  solemnly  vowed  his  undying  love 
for  her. 

She  had  tried  to  anger  him.  The  trifler,  the  despic- 
able flirt.  She  had  been  chatting  in  utmost  familiarity. 
Why,  nothing  short  of  kinship,  next  to  that  of  brother, 
could  excuse  it.  No,  never,  never,  would  he  see  this 
woman  again.  He  was  unable  to  understand  how  it  had 
been  possible  that  he  could  have  been  so  blind  in  his 
estimation  of  her  virtues. 

Alverstone  had  tried  hard  to  calm  his  rage  by  a  hard, 
dashing  ride,  but  at  last,  when  he  could  endure  the  nerv- 
ous strain  no  longer,  he  had  gone  to  the  stable  and  left 
his  horse  and  started  to  walk. 

He  stumbled  on  blindly,  following  any  street  present- 
ed, if  unconsciously  making  a  choice  then  taking  the  one 
that  presented  the  least  obstruction  to  his  onward  rush. 

He  did  not  know  how  long  he  had  walked.  One  mo- 
ment the  hot  blood  hissed  in  his  ears,  and  then  clammy 

347 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

chills  shivered  his  frame.  He  had  suffered  himself  to  be 
blindly  driven  thus,  until  he  was  awakened  from  his 
somnambulistic  state  by  the  suddenness  of  something 
strangely  new  before  him. 

For  a  moment  his  mind  paused  in  its  action,  and  he 
attempted  to  grasp  the  situation.  What  stretched  out 
before  him  was  not  a  busy  boulevard ;  it  was  not  a  narrow 
street;  it  was  a  necropolis.  He  walked  on,  passed  under 
the  viaduct  and  halted  at  the  circle  called  the  Carrefour 
de  la  Croix,  for  it  has  in  its  center  a  cross,  and  beneath 
this  monument  are  interred  the  victims  of  the  coup  d'etat 
of  1852. 

Alverstone  was  not  there  to  notice  monuments.  His 
heart  and  soul  were  filled  with  deeds  of  the  living,  and 
the  deeds  of  those  honored  by  this  great  monument  could 
have  none  of  his  thoughts.  His  heart  was  breaking,  and 
in  the  battle  he  had  been  waging  he  had  been  con- 
quered— nay,  he  had  been  more  than  conquered,  for  his 
heart  was  crushed,  and  life  to  him  was  without  value. 

He  turned  and  looked  in  the  direction  northwest  from 
where  he  stood. 

It  was  like  all  cemeteries,  dull,  cold  and  deathlike, 
and  it  gave  added  strength  to  the  chill  from  which  he 
already  suffered. 

It  was  one  of  the  large  burial  grounds  of  a  great 
city.  It  had  a  name  to  distinguish  it  from  its  sister  grave- 
yards, and  it  was  called  Montmartre,  because  it  slept  at 
the  bottom  of  the  high  hill  by  that  name. 

Alverstone  did  not  stand  long,  but  walked  up  the 
main  avenue — by  name,  the  Avenue  de  la  Croix.  Why 
he  turned  to  the  right  of  the  main  way  is  not  easily 
understood,  but  some  force  prompted  him  to  turn  to  the 
right,  and  not  to  the  left,  at  this  particular  moment. 

Had  Alverstone  himself  been  questioned  as  to  why, 
he  had  been  unable  to  give  the  reason,  for  he  had  no 

348 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

will  in  the  matter.  The  way  he  took  mounted  the  right 
terrace.  While  it  was  not  a  narrow  way,  yet  it  was 
small,  and  the  avenue  he  had  just  left  was  a  main  drive- 
way. 

Alverstone  halted  and  turned  around.  This  move- 
ment was  as  involuntary  as  had  been  that  of  the  choice 
of  way.  He  looked  up  at  the  dull  gray  sky,  then  down 
at  the  moist  earth,  and  around  upon  the  many  piles  of 
stone  fashioned  to  suit  the  sentiment  of  those  whose  sad 
privilege  it  had  been  to  place  them  there. 

No  living  thing  seemed  stirring.  He  looked  down  into 
the  valley  where  he  had  been,  but  he  made  no  movement 
to  descend. 

There  was  a  figure  bent  over  and  evidently  searching 
along  the  curbing  for  something  that  had  been  lost. 

At  first  Alverstone  thought  it  a  policeman,  but  when 
the  figure  straightened  itself  he  saw  it  was  enveloped  in 
a  long  cloak,  and  not  the  customary  cape  of  the  police 
of  Paris. 

The  figure  continued  to  search  for  some  time,  but 
finally,  though  very  reluctantly,  as  evidenced  by  the  re- 
peated attempts  to  recover  the  lost  article,  the  seeker 
went  slowly  away. 

Alverstone  recognized  the  form  as  that  of  the  cloaked 
person  who,  on  last  evening,  had  gotten  into  the  cab 
on  the  small  street  adjoining  the  Boulevard  des  Capu- 
cines. 

"Yes,"  he  mused,  "the  same  cloak,  the  same  gliding 
motion,  the  same  height."  Everything,  he  thought,  point- 
ed to  a  perfect  identity,  except  that  the  figure  was  more 
slender  of  form. 

The  woman — for  he  pronounced  the  unknown  figure, 
what  from  her  dress  and  gait  he  inferred  her  to  be — 
passed  under  the  viaduct,  and  the  shadow  cast  by  this 
elevated  street  obscured  her  rapidly  moving  person.  Al- 

349 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

verstone  looked  after  the  disappearing  woman,  and  the 
words,  "As  strong  as  possible,"  came  to  his  mind,  but  as 
quickly  passed  out  unheeded. 

Then  he  turned  and  went  on  for  some  time,  sur- 
sounded  by  the  ominous  silence  which  pervaded  the 
place.  The  healthy  elasticity  of  his  extraordinary  body 
reasserted  itself,  and  Alverstone  was  almost  himself 
again,  for,  though  to  a  degree  disturbed,  he  had  passed 
out  of  the  dangerous  state,  in  which  a  less  fortified  man 
had  done  himself  violence. 

He  now  thought  unconcernedly  of  all  that  so  re- 
cently had  threatened  to  dethrone  his  reason. 

He  turned  a  sharp  corner,  and,  after  walking  a  few 
steps,  he  came  face  to  face  with  the  backs  of  three  high, 
narrow  monuments.  They  stood  close  together,  side  by 
side,  but  the  roofs  of  the  mausoleums  extended  beyond 
the  walls  of  the  sepulchres,  and,  therefore,  though  no 
one  might  pass  his  arm  through  the  opening,  any.  one 
could  easily  see  and  recognize  a  person  on  the  other  side 
from  him. 

On  suddenly  finding  this  barrier  obstructing  his  way, 
Alverstone  made  a  movement  to  go  around  the  three 
mausoleums,  when  a  low  growl  attracted  his  attention. 

He  stopped — voices  were  near,  and  he  could  also 
hear  the  soft,  stealthy  tread  of  feet  that  were  guided 
by  brains  within  that  order  of  men  the  most  debased — 
the  sneak. 

It  was  evident  there  were  several  persons  together. 
Though  Alverstone  had  never  felt  the  unknightly  posi- 
tion of  concealment,  he  now  thought  it  the  better  part 
of  wisdom  to  stand  perfectly  still  on  the  spot  where  he 
then  found  himself.  The  approachers  paused  on  the 
other  side  of  the  mausoleum  from  Alverstone,  and  for  a 
little  while  he  feared  that  a  desperate  time  was  at  hand, 

350 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

for  they  seemed  on  the  eve  of  a  great  quarrel,  and  a 
quarrel  among  such  men  means  death  at  the  same  time. 

He  heartily  wished  himself  away  from  the  spot,  but 
retreat  or  advance  without  detection  was  equally  impos- 
sible. He  hoped  they  would  pass  on  without  knowledge 
of  his  proximity,  for  he  supposed  them  on  their  way  to 
the  gate. 

"Why  in  the  devil  do  you  carry  that  lantern?  They'll 
catch  us  yet." 

"Oh,"  piped  a  high,  thin  voice,  in  answer  to  the  de- 
graded questioner,  "that's  the  very  reason  I  carry  it.  A 
lantern  isn't  a  suspicious  thing;  it's  an  honest  tool.  The 
other  day  when  I  had  this  lantern  I  was  taken  for  a 
workingman.  Now,  if  that's  not  honest,  what  is  ?" 

"That  may  be,"  replied  the  first  voice ;  "but  I  saw  the 
cop  spy  you  out  when  you  crossed  the  viaduct." 

There  was  a  restless  movement,  and  many  voices 
spoke  at  once.  There  was  a  harsh  voice;  a  gritting, 
toothy  voice,  and  the  high,  thin  voice  that  carried  the 
lantern.  They  all  snarled  menacingly  as  they  cried, 
"Au  diable  with  the  discourses ;  we  want  money — gold 
— gold.  We've  come  here  for  money,  and  we  want 
money." 

"Come" — it  was  the  growling  voice  that  answered, 
with  a  threat — "if  you  don't  stop  this  noise  at  once  I'll 
see  that  you  don't  howl  any  more." 

Then  followed  low,  discontented  mutterings ;  but  they 
were  less  noisy,  and  did  not  venture  to  speak  loud.  No 
doubt,  they  understood  too  well  the  force  of  the  threat. 

"Remember  the  motto,"  said  the  growling  voice : 
"  'Who  kills  best  gets'  "— 

The  voice  ceased,  and  Alverstone  heard  distinctly 
the  jingling  of  many  gold  pieces. 

Alverstone  sincerely  wished  that  he  had  shown  him- 
self at  once.  He  reproached  himself  for  having  stood 


AN  AMERICAN    SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

still,  for  now  he  could  not  go.  He  had  heard  enough  to 
understand  that  something  nefarious  was  about  to  take 
place,  and  the  group  on  the  other  side  would,  of  course, 
understand  that,  too,  and  effectually  quell  the  danger 
from  his  secretly  gained  knowledge.  He  was  afraid  to 
move,  for  well  he  knew  what  would  be  the  result  of  his 
discovery.  He  looked  around  him  and  was  glad  that  the 
day  had  grown  dark — rapidly  dark,  as  is  often  the  case 
at  this  season  of  the  year  in  Paris.  Had  the  elements 
not  thus  ministered  to  his  safety  by  throwing  around  him 
that  heavy,  gray  cloak  of  mist  and  fog,  his  place  of 
concealment  would  have  been  quite  insecure ;  for,  though 
the  mausoleums  were  high,  the  spaces  between  their 
walls  were  large  enough  to  make  hiding  perilous,  unless 
one  stood  very  still,  and  this  was  a  difficult  matter — 
quite  a  feat. 

"Tell  me  the  place  and  the  man  is  dead,"  clamored 
the  voices,  in  loud  hisses — hisses  of  such  eagerness  that 
Alverstone  was  sickened  at  the  sound  of  them. 

"Is  everything  ready?"  demanded  the  growling  voice. 
This  voice,  as  was  easily  understood,  came  from  the  di- 
recting force  of  the  crowd,  and  it  vibrated  savagely  upon 
the  dusky-gray  of  the  evening. 

"Yes,  Monsieur  Bordet,"  responded  a  low,  ominously 
monotonous  voice.  "The  livery  is  ready,  and  the  car- 
riage will  be  at  No.  60  at  five-forty." 

•  This  was  the  first  time  Alverstone  had  heard  this 
voice.  The  tones  were  gloomy  and  sepulchral,  and  never 
to  be  forgotten,  even  had  they  been  heard  amid  less 
gloomy  and  less  forbidding  surroundings. 

"Are  these  horses  spirited?"  again  put  the  leader. 

"Spirited  as  the  Devil  at  midnight,"  again  answered 
the  monotonous  voice. 

"Come,  Anatole,"  went  on  the  chief ;  "you'll  be  coach- 
man." 

352 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"Yes,  at  your  bidding,  Monsieur  le  chef,"  quickly 
responded  the  gritting,  toothy  voice. 

"Now  Rene" — it  was  the  chief  who  still  spoke — "set 
down  that  lantern  and  make  your  ears  pointed.  Do  you 
understand?" 

"Yes,  I'm  ready" — it  was  the  thin,  piping  voice  made 
reply  to  this. 

"You  must  be  footman." 

Alverstone  could  see  without  peering  the  silhouette 
of  a  man.  He  was  short  and  thin,  but  with  thick-set 
muscles.  His  black  hair  was  not  abundant,  but  ill  kept, 
and  it  clung  tightly  to  the  back  of  the  neck.  He  wore 
a  battered  hat  and  his  clothes  were  too  small  for  his 
miserable  body,  horribly  misshapen  by  a  degraded  and 
debauched  imagination. 

"Do  you  know  the  duties  of  a  footman?"  next  put 
the  leader. 

"Yes,  my  chief,  and  all  the  attendant  ceremony;  so 
and  so,"  and  while  he  made  the  few  movements  Alver- 
stone saw  his  face  well,  and  it  was  a  face  such  as  his 
criminally  distorted  body  would  warrant  his  having,  and 
under  the  slightest  excitement  it  would  be  capable  of 
filling  the  beholder  with  terror,  for  no  mercy  could  be 
expected  from  that  man,  unless  it  was  sought  under  the 
protection  of  his  ever-changing  emotion.  The  sallow 
skin  was  tightly  drawn  upon  the  face,  and  the  sullen 
set  of  the  jaw  showed  accomplishment  of  any  deter- 
mined plan  of  action,  while  the  small  black  eyes  glit- 
tered hard  with  an  unearthly  expression  of  hideous  por- 
tentiousness. 

"Well  done!"  cried  the  growling  voice  of  the  chief, 
when  the  acting  footman  had  finished  his  mimic  show. 
"We  shall  make  a  capital  job  of  it.  Not  a  spark  of 
life  left.  You,  Germain,  you  must  go  to  the  Bois  and 

353 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

stay  where  the  walnut  tree  goes  out  into  the  road.  You 
remember  the  place?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Well,  you're  to  stay  there,  and  when  the  carriage 
approaches,  if  everything  goes  well,  you  are  to  keep  per- 
fectly quiet  until  it  stops;  but  if,"  with  fierce  emphasis 
on  the  conjunction,  "there  is  any  one  around,  you  are 
to  whistle  the  E.  G.  P.  whistle." 

"But,  my  chief,"  .objected  the  gritting,  toothy  voice, 
"since  we  finished  that  Lyonnais  there  a  policeman  has 
been  stationed  right  at  the  walnut  tree." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  roughly  demanded  the 
chief. 

"Oh,  I  heard  a  driver  at  the  Cafe  des  Cochers  say 
so,  and  he  knows,  for  he  belongs  to  that  quarter." 

A  low,  hurried  conversation  followed,  and  Alverstone 
thought  that,  without  doubt,  the  chief  was  consulting 
with  his  lieutenant.  After  a  brief  lapse  of  time  the  chief 
spoke : 

"Very  well,  the  place  is  changed.  Your  post  is  at 
the  pool,  where  the  willows  go  around  it.  Do  you 
know  it?" 

"Yes,  my  chief." 

This  entire  band  knew  all  the  dark  spots  of  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne;  in  fact,  the  dark  spots  of  all  the  outlying 
posts  of  operation  for  their  diabolical  deeds. 

"Then  all's  settled,"  went  on  the  chief.  "Germain, 
you  go  to  the  willow  pool,  at  six  o'clock  to-night.  Keep 
your  wits  well  about  you.  Wait  patiently  and  listen  care- 
fully. You  know  the  penalty  if  you  are  caught  napping, 
either  with  your  eyes  open  or  shut.  Open  the  door, 
throw  the  cloak  over  her  head,  drag  her  out.  She'll  not 
struggle  long,  and  no  noise  can  come  from  her.  Carry 
her  into  the  thicket  and  stab  her  twice  in  the  heart. 
Then  she'll  be  dead,"  and  he  laughed  fiendishly. 

354 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"Be  careful,  Germain;  she  might  get  off  the  cloak, 
and  maybe  she's  pious,  and  she'll  pray  you  to  save  her." 

"Ha !  ha !  not  I,"  laughed  Germain.  "I  killed  a  child 
who  begged  to  finish  its  prayers.  Nothing  has  ever 
stopped  my  hand,  and  nothing  can." 

"Yes,  there  is  something  can,"  piped  the  high,  thin 
voice  of  Rene,  with  a  wicked,  yet  morbid-toned  mirth. 
"Death  will." 

"Ugh!"  retorted  the  angry  Germain;  "really,  here's 
an  ass  with  a  goose-beak,  that  calls  himself  an  owl,  and 
carries  about  a  lantern  by  day  to  play  out  his  wisdom." 

"Here,  stop  your  wrangling  and  let  me  finish.  After 
she's  killed  you  must  get  back  to  the  stables  as  soon  as 
possible,  but  don't  drive  so  fast  that  the  police  will  notice 
you.  They're  always  suspicious  of  fast-going  vehicles. 
Come  back  by  the  Exterior  Boulevards."  Then,  turning 
to  another,  he  said:  "Now,  Anatole,  you're  the  coach- 
man. See  that  you  hold  a  firm  hand.  You  leave  No.  60 
at  five-forty.  It  will  take  fifteen  minutes  to  get  to  the 
place." 

Then  the  chief  lowered  his  voice  to  a  mere  whisper, 
and,  though  Alverstone  listened  hard,  he  heard  nothing. 

A  west  wind  was  carrying  the  heavy  clouds  close  to 
the  earth,  and  the  increased  gloom  was  oppressive. 

It  was  horrible  to  think  that  he  could  not  move.  If 
he  could  but  go  at  once  and  notify  the  police  of  the  in- 
tention of  these  desperadoes  before  they  would  leave  the 
cemetery!  But,  though  he  might  descend  the  terrace  in 
the  mist  and  deepening  shadows,  he  yet  knew  that  the 
slightest  movement  upon  his  part  would  be  attended  with 
more  or  less  disturbance  of  the  air,  something  easily 
perceptible  to  such  persons.  And,  too,  his  feet  coming 
in  contact  with  the  gravel  walk  would  more  than  likely 
make  a  noise.  And,  were  he  put  to  the  chase,  he  knew 
full  well  that  this  gang  could  soon  distance  him,  in  a 

355 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS, 

few  bounds,  for  he  was  no  athlete ;  in  fact,  he  had  never 
in  his  life  given  any  attention  to  the  simplest  stretches 
of  a  run. 

Alverstone  forgot  his  despair,  his  jealousy,  his  all, 
in  thinking  of  the  gruesomeness  of  what  he  heard.  Thus 
it  ever  is,  and  if  each  individual,  when  borne  down,  driv- 
en almost  distracted  by  the  poignancy  of  some  canker- 
eating  sorrow,  would  only  cast  about  to  find  some  one  less 
fortunate  than  himself  to  whom  he  could  lend  a  helping 
hand,  he  would,  ere  long,  find  himself  divested  of  what 
had  been  a  self-destroying  force,  and  in  its  stead  find  a 
healthy  elasticity  of  mind. 

The  planning  of  the  murder  of  an  innocent  victim — 
a  woman — in  a  cemetery — over  the  graves  of  the  dead — 
it  was  appalling. 

Alverstone  could  not  help  think  that  these  breathing 
organizations  behind  the  tombs  from  him  had  been  noble 
men  had  they  been  fortunate  enough  to  have  been  pro- 
tected in  childhood  as  he  had  been.  Had  not  these  men 
been  born  infants!  Had  not  the  awful  chimeras  of 
racked  imagination  confronted  them !  Had  not  the  re- 
morse of  memory  haunted  them !  Had  they  no  souls ! 
No  doubt,  there  had  been  stations  of  repentance,  past 
which  the  headlong  rushing  train  had  hurled  them 
through  space,  in  which  space  on  every  side  had  seethed 
and  had  surged  every  form  of  soul-annihilation. 

He  felt  strong  pity  for  the  men  of  whose  moral 
undoing  he  knew  nothing ;  but  he  felt  great  apprehension 
for  that  portion  of  humanity  upon  which  they  vented 
their  hatred,  born  of  careless  neglect  of  moral  man  for 
his  unfortunate  brother. 

Alverstone  was  roused  from  his  reverie  by  a  streak 
of  light,  which  came  through  the  openings. 

It  had  grown  dark,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
light,  Alverstone  would  not  have  seen  anything  of  the 

356 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

ruffians  on  the  other  side.  He  ventured  to  look  through, 
and  what  he  saw  would  never  suffer  effacement. 

There  was  a  bier-like  sepulchre,  and  the  recumbent 
figure  of  a  woman,  long,  long  since  departed,  was  chiseled 
upon  its  top.  Like  many  near  by  tombs,  it  was  gray,  and  in 
many  places  the  smooth  surface  of  the  stone  was  nicked, 
and  when  these  hollows  were  on  the  level  surface  they 
were  full  of  water,  and  in  the  day  time  the  birds  came 
and  drank  from  them,  and  sometimes  lizkrds  would  run 
through  them,  but  more  often  these  latter  came  at  night. 
The  figure  was  shrouded  and  the  features  were  very 
delicate,  and  the  hands,  which  met  as  in  prayer,  were 
long  and  slender.  At  the  base  of  the  sepulchre  and  ex- 
tending out  from  it  was  a  stone  pavement.  This  paved 
square  was  not  very  large,  for  the  adjacent  tombs  stood 
very  near  this  particular  tomb.  These  adjacent  monu- 
ments were  all  mausoleums,  with  the  exception  of  one, 
and  they  fitted  one  against  the  other,  as  they  often  do 
in  large  burial  grounds.  The  exception  was  a  small 
tombstone,  which  faced  on  another  way;  but  it  was  so 
close  to  the  long,  bier-like  tomb  that  any  one,  sacri- 
legious, could  sit  on  it  and  rest  his  arms  on  the  praying 
figure  of  the  other. 

Thus  when  Alverstone,  peering  through  the  long,  nar- 
row opening,  brought  the  five  men  within  the  circle  of 
his  vision,  the  shrouded,  recumbent  figure  formed  the 
center  around  which  they  grouped. 

By  their  attitudes,  by  their  speech  and  by  their  mo- 
tions, the  tomb  was  made  to  look  more  like  a  common 
billiard  table  in  a  low  wine  shop  than  like  the  stone 
image  of  a  dead  body — a  holy  grave — in  sacred  grounds. 

Each  face  reflected  the  viciousness  of  the  soul  within, 
and  each  glowered  and  leered  upon  the  other  like  a  sav- 
agely carnivorous  beast.  Only  the  leader  was  exempt 

357 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

from  a  share  in  the  portentiousness — the  overshadowing 
ill — pent  up  in  the  fiery  glare  of  their  demonian  eyeballs. 

The  flash  light  was  in  the  hand  of  the  one  who  seemed 
to  be  a  grade  higher  socially  than  the  others,  yet  trem- 
blingly inferior  to  the  chief. 

Seated  upon  the  small  tombstone,  and  with  both  arms 
resting  upon  the  bier,  sat  the  chief — head  of  the  band — 
doling  out  gold  pieces — the  price  these  lost  men  were 
paid  for  their  strength  in  hardness  of  nature — natures 
that  knew  no  emotion  but  that  of  rebellion  toward  their 
Maker. 

He  was  a  tall,  well-built  man,  and  worthy  the  name 
of  chief.  His  manners  would  have  marked  him  a  man 
of  wealth,  though  not  of  elegance.  The  clothes  were  not 
of  that  fine  stuff  which  distinguishes  the  raiment  of  the 
elegant  man  of  leisure;  but  they  were  the  novel,  chic 
stuff  of  the  smart,  uncouth  set.  He  wore  a  small  derby 
that  was  well  pushed  back,  and  the  height  of  the  fore- 
head made  the  face  attractive.  The  eyebrows  were  too 
highly  arched,  and  the  eyes,  at  this  moment,  had  a  fixed 
glitter,  which,  by  a  law-abiding  citizen,  had  been  ac- 
counted, at  the  least,  annoying.  The  turn  of  the  mouth 
was  hidden  by  a  heavy  mustache ;  in  all,  he  looked  like  a 
very  wanton  Parisian  cockney,  who  had  sprung  from 
the  gutters  of  a  great  city. 

The  remaining  four  were  horrible  to  look  at  in  their 
rags  and  tatters.  They  all  wore  clothes  which  evidently 
had  belonged  to  some  one  else,  and  two  wore  the  small 
cap  with  the  peak,  while  the  rest  wore  the  battered  felt 
hat.  Their  unhealthy  faces  would  have  been  pallid  if  the 
dirt  of  many  years  had  not  begrimed  the  skin  to  such 
an  extent  as  to  make  it  impossible  to  tell  with  exactness 
to  what  nationality  they  belonged. 

The  face  of  the  lamp-holder  was  very  oval,  and  the 

358 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

sharp,  sensitive  features  marked  a  man  whose  unsatiated 
tastes  had  made  him  a  moody,  dangerous  fellow. 

The  one  next  to  him,  and  on  his  right,  consequently 
giving  Alverstone  an  excellent  view  of  his  face,  went  by 
the  name  of  Germain,  and  was  a  very  different-looking 
fellow. 

The  chief,  who  had  chosen  him  as  the  murderer,  un- 
derstood his  unsurpassed  fitness  for  any  deed  requiring 
brawn,  for  he  was  a  brawny  man,  and  his  arms  were 
large  and  sinewy,  and  his  face  was  that  of  a  beast  of 
wildest  ferocity. 

Alverstone  thought  that  no  mercy  would  ever  be 
shown  the  victim  within  the  power  of  this  man.  He 
remembered  when  a  child  to  have  spent  many  hours 
wrapped  in  deep  contemplation  of  the  young  girl  implor- 
ing Gibbs — the  pirate — as  shown  in  "Our  First  Century," 
to  spare  her  life;  and  the  face  of  the  terrible  tyrant  had 
so  impressed  him  that  through  all  his  travels  he  had 
recognized  the  slightest  approach  to  a  Gibbs  type;  for 
Alverstone's  was  a  very  magnetically  poised  organization, 
and  this  Germain  was  a  deeper  study  in  the  science  of 
crime  than  Alverstone  had  found  in  the  face  of  Gibbs. 

As  for  the  remaining  two,  they  were  on  the  side  of 
the  bier  next  to  Alverstone,  and,  of  course,  their  backs 
and  an  occasional  side  view  of  their  faces  as  they  turned 
their  heads  was  all  that  Alverstone  could  see  of  them. 

The  chief  looked  around  at  the  four  eager  faces,  but 
kept  taking  out  the  glittering  gold  pieces  from  a  yellow 
leathern  pouch — twenty-franc  pieces — and  placed  them 
equally  in  four  small  columns  upon  the  bier-like  tomb  in 
front  of  him. 

Every  once  in  a  while  a  piece  would  slip  and  roll. 
Then  one  of  the  eager  four  would  lay  his  hand  over  it 
and  try  to  slip  it  away,  making  an  altogether  pitiful  spec- 
tacle in  his  greed  to  possess  the  yellow  metal,  for  which 

359 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

man  has  delved  and  woman  has  toiled.  And  the  miser 
and  criminal  have  sold  their  all,  beginning  with  the  greed 
of  gain  in  childhood,  for  which  they  have  sold  their 
little  friendships  of  congenial  companions,  on  down  the 
journey  till  they  have  found  themselves  the  genteel  miser, 
who  gets  all  his  gain  for  as  little  expenditure  upon  his  part 
as  possible;  or  the  miser  who,  hoarding  his  gains,  parts 
not  with  even  a  sufficiency  to  cleanse  his  physical  being. 

The  chief  saw  everything  and  knew  what  to  expect 
from  the  wolvish  fiends  with  whom  he  dealt.  He  would 
growl  an  awful  oath  and  add  some  figurative  threat, 
which  Alverstone  could  not  understand,  but  which  the 
ruffians  did,  and  he  would  glower  upon  the  culprit  with 
an  eye  so  ominous  that  the  miserable  greed  gave  place 
to  maniacal  fear,  and  the  piece  would  be  returned. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  it  is  nevertheless  true  that 
the  more  desperate  the  character,  the  more  terror-inspir- 
ing is  the  fear  which  seizes  when  a  masterful  hand 
waves  the  wand  of  authority. 

When  the  columns  of  gold  were  heightened  irregu- 
larly, the  one  who  thought  the  small  one  came  to  him 
would  cry  out,  and  then  when  the  chief  would  silence 
him  he  would  pull  out  his  dagger  and  examine  the  blade 
and  look  more  vicious  than  ever,  thus  hoping  that  his 
master  might  think  him  a  dastardly  enough  villain,  to  be 
well  paid. 

The  scene  was  truly  hideous,  for  the  white  monu- 
ments of  the  dead — silent  monitors  of  life's  fleeting  day — 
contrasted  ghastly  with  the  hideousness  of  the  gruesome 
feast  spread  by  the  Apache  band  gathered  about  the  tomb, 
upon  which,  by  strange  coincidence,  lay  the  marble  figure 
of  a  maiden,  at  least  a  woman  of  short  advance  into  the 
realm  of  womanhood. 

The  one  who  held  the  flash  light  now  moved  it  so  that 
the  direct  ray  fell  through  the  space  between  the  two 

360 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

tombs  near  Alverstone.  He  drew  back  into  the  gloom, 
into  closer  contact  with  the  mausoleums.  He  looked 
down  to  be  sure  that  his  feet  were  not  in  the  beam  of 
light. 

But  what  was  that!  The  flash  of  something  met  his 
eye.  Lying  very  near  his  feet  was  something  that 
sparkled  and  twinkled  like  a  trinket. 

With  a  childlike  boldness  of  forgetfulness,  he  stooped 
and  picked  it  up.  Though  this  he  accomplished  without 
the  slightest  noise,  and  nothing  but  the  motion  of  the  air 
displaced  by  his  movements  in  the  act  of  picking  it  up, 
yet  that  was  sufficient  for  the  ears  of  the  brigands,  trained 
as  they  were  to  listen  for  retributory  steps. 

"Some  one's  about,"  cried  the  monotonous  voice,  in 
hoarse,  whispered  words,  and  instantaneous  with  the 
whispered  warning  the  light  went  out  and  a  deadly  silence 
prevailed.  Alverstone  held  his  breath  and  his  heart 
thumped  loudly. 

After  a  stillness  of  some  seconds'  duration,  enough 
to  insure  to  the  practiced  ear  that  nothing  of  mortal  man 
was  stirring,  the  chief  spoke  reassuringly: 

"No,  it's  a  lizard  running  through  the  grass  over 
there."  The  light  came  on  again,  and  it  was  turned  in 
the  direction  of  the  sound. 

There,  hopping  across  the  gravel-walk,  was  a  harm- 
less toad ;  but  the  toad  had  interfered  with  the  diabolical 
scheming  of  hellish  fiends ;  so  one  swore  at  the  small  rep- 
tile and  kicked  it,  for  even  the  foul  toad  fares  not  well 
in  the  haunts  of  the  wicked.  What,  then,  must  be  the 
fate  of  man  in  those  same  haunts ! 

"There,  take  that,"  said  the  big  one?  who  went  by  the 
name  of  Germain,  lifting  his  foot  high  and  digging  his 
heel  down  upon  the  harmless  toad,  out  on  his  evening 
mission  of  gathering  food — at  least  to  eat  or  to  be  eaten. 
This  poor  toad,  however,  had  entered  the  haunts  of  lost 

361 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

man — than  which  there  is  none  lower,  unless  it  be  the 
haunts  of  lost  woman;  and  so  ended  his  days  of  pere- 
grinations in  the  Cemetery  of  Montmartre.  •  No  doubt, 
had  he  been  a  vain  toad  he  had  been  proud  of  his  coun- 
try— the  wealthy  necropolis,  within  whose  mausoleums 
lay  many  of  the  world's  illustrious  dead — it  is  a  great 
city  in  that  great  city — -the  capital  of  the  world — Paris. 

Alverstone  now  had  orbicular  proof  that  within  this 
Germain  was  an  energy  which  would,  with  delight,  crush 
out  the  life  of  some  unsuspecting  human  being  within  a 
short  time — some  little  over  an  hour. 

"Where's  my  money?" 

"I  gave  it  to  you,"  responded  the  chief. 

"No,  you  didn't,"  cried  the  irate  voice  of  the  one 
called  Anatole. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  snapped  back  the  chief.  "If  you  want 
any  more  money  you  must  get  it  from  the  Madame." 

"Where  is  she?  She'll  die  or  give  me  more,"  and  his 
words  came  hard  through  tightly  shut  teeth. 

"I  don't  know.  She  went  off  in  that  direction," 
answered  the  chief,  indicating  by  a  motion  the  direction 
of  the  tombs  behind  which  Alverstone  was  concealed. 

"Oh,  you  can't  get  her,"  laughed  Rene.  "She  left 
before  we  came  up.  Wasn't  that  she  with  the  long  black 
cloak?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Germain,  through  a  grin.  He  was 
obviously  very  much  pleased  with  what  he  had  got,  and 
stood  patting  a  wallet  between  his  two  palms  and  glaring 
around  at  the  others  like  an  incarnate  fiend. 

"I'll  go  after  her,"  cried  Anatole.  "See  if  she'll  get 
off  so  easy.  I'll  get  her  jewels  if  she  hasn't  any  money 
on  her,"  and  he  sprang  forward,  following  the  impulse 
to  exact  more. 

"You're  a  fool,  Anatole,"  sneered  Germain.  "Don't 
you  know  the  gates  are  shut?" 

362 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

Alverstone  almost  gasped.  A  new  sensation  seized 
upon  him.  Was  it  true?  Were  the  gates  closed?  Was 
he  locked  in  here?  This  Apache  most  likely  knew  what 
he  said,  and  Alverstone  knew  enough  of  Parisian  burial 
grounds  to  know  that  when  the  gates  were  closed  there 
was  no  way  of  exit,  for  there  was  a  high  wall  running 
around  the  entire  necropolis. 

But  how  could  these  ruffians  get  out?  They  were 
to  commit  their  murder  in  a  short  time,  and  it  was  to  be 
in  the  Bois,  so,  of  course,  they  must  have  some  secret 
mode  of  exit.  Perhaps  some  movable  stone  in  the  high 
wall  might  bear  a  secret  mark  to  them,  by  means  of  the 
removal  of  which  stone  they  would  be  afforded  a  large 
enough  opening  to  pass  their  lithe  bodies  through;  and 
most  likely  in  their  case  they  would  not  replace  the  stone, 
and  Alverstone  could  go  out  after  them.  He  shrank 
from  the  thought  of  following  such  men,  and  for  the 
purpose  of  availing  himself  of  their  mode  of  clandestine 
departure  from  this  city  of  the  dead. 

No  superstitious  fear  of  spending  a  night  in  a  ceme- 
tery confronted  him,  but  he  was  disturbed  to  the  point 
of  distraction  as  to  his  duty  regarding  the  safety  of  the 
life  he  knew  was  in  jeopardy,  and  which  he  knew  would 
be  cut  short  unless  he  was  able  to  inform  the  police. 

"It's  getting  along,  isn't  it?"  said  one  brigand. 

"Just  five  now,"  answered  another. 

"Have  to  be  hurrying  up,"  piped  Rene,  "if  we're  to 
be  there  in  half  an  hour." 

Germain  glowered  at  Rene,  and  called  him,  among 
a  lot  of  oaths  and  low  slang,  a  "milksop,"  or  its  equiva- 
lent, because  Rene  had  a  natural  pallor. 

"Rene,  sharpen  your  knife  well,  for  if  she  struggles 
much,  you  know  you're  to  help  me  to  the  finish."  Ger- 
main instinctively  knew  that  Rene  suffered  whenever  al- 
lusion to  the  moment  of  action  was  made,  so  Germain 

36.1 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

purposely  thrust  it  at  him  whenever  he  saw  the  occa- 
sional cringe  in  the  face  of  Rene.  The  unearthly  pallor 
of  Rene's  face  had  given  way  to  a  deadly  greenish  cast, 
and  Alverstone  was  glad  to  see  that  beneath  this  fright- 
ful exterior  was  a  spark  of  manhood  which  revolted  at 
the  bloody  jest. 

At  mention  of  the  knife  a  spark  of  light  had  appeared 
amid  the  darkness  of  that  benighted  soul,  and  Alver- 
stone's  sympathy  went  out  to  the  man,  who  sat  among 
that  band,  a  butt  of  their  jibes,  because  of  the  atom  of 
true  manhood  within  his  sin-tossed  soul,  which  would  not 
down  at  his  bidding,  but  which  would  rise  to  torment 
him  in  his  lost  surroundings  and  plead  with  him  for  a 
return  to  fields  of  light,  where  he  was  sure  to  have  a 
conscience,  void  of  offense — where  he  might  be  useful  to 
his  fellow -men — where  he  might  be  happy  in  a  well-spent 
life,  even  though  that  life  were  a  ceaseless  struggle  for 
existence. 

"Is  this  all  you're  going  to  get?"  asked  Anatole,  with 
a  sneer,  of  their  chief. 

"No,  this  is  only  half  of  our  pay.  She  wouldn't  give 
me  more  until  it's  done." 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  Rene,  while  a  sad  light  crossed 
his  otherwise  placid  face.  "You'll  never  see  her  again. 
She  knows  her  work  will  be  done,  and  she'll  be  far  from 
here  when  it's  over." 

"What's  that ?"  cried  the  chief.  "Not  get  more?  In- 
deed I  will,  or  else  I'll  steal  her  child  and  hold  him  for 
ransom." 

"Oh,  so  you  know  her?"  mocked  Anatole,  question- 
ing^- 

"Of  course,  I  know  her,"  retorted  the  angered  voice 
of  the  chief,  for  he  felt  insulted  at  the  remarks  of  his 
underlings.  "Do  you  think  I  undertake  deeds  of  this 
order  for  unknown  persons?" 

364 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

"Oh !  I  didn't  know,"  replied  Anatole,  scoffingly. 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  the  light-holder,  turning  the 
light  towards  himself  and  looking,  with  perfect  quietude 
and  without  flinching  a  muscle,  into  the  glaring  light,  as 
one  would  have  done  when  clipping  a  burnt  wick  with 
a  snuffer. 

At  mention  by  the  chief  of  the  name  required  in  the 
answer  to  the  question  put,  Alverstone  for  an  instant 
felt  himself  petrified,  but  he  failed  not  himself  in  this 
stern  hour.  He  leaned  against  the  tomb  at  his  back 
and  mentally  repeated  the  name  pronounced  by  the  chief, 
to  see  if  possible  whether  he  had  heard  aright. 

Alverstone  clinched  his  hands  so  tightly  that  the  small 
stones  in  the  trinket  he  had  picked  up  dug  into  the  flesh 
of  his  right  palm,  and  involuntarily,  more  than  volun- 
tarily, he  opened  his  hand.  The  light  diffused  from  the 
small  beam  that  came  through  the  narrow  space,  fell  full 
on  his  open  hand,  and  the  small  trinket  glittered. 

What  was  it?  Alverstone  started  and  would  have 
ejaculated  had  he  not  been  a  more  cautious  man.  As  it 
was,  he  almost  forgot  the  gang  on  the  other  side  of  the. 
mausoleums.  And  he  stared  long  and  hard  at  the  daz- 
zling jewel  in  his  open  palm. 

The  blood  surged  to  his  head.  His  brain  swam.  It 
was  his  very  own ! — the  one  his  mother  had  given  him — - 
just  one  year  before  she  died.  And  who  had  taken  it 
from  him? — who?  Had  he  forgotten  the  night  when  the 
moon  dipped  her  silver  bow  near  the  horizon? — where 
there  were  many  planets  and  more  stars? — in  a  far-off 
country,  where  the  gentle  wind  was  warm  and  languor- 
ous? And  who  had  walked  beside  him  on  that  night? 
Who  had  taken  from  him  the  dearest  treasure  he  pos- 
sessed— this  locket — the  gift  of  his  sainted  mother? 
Never  again  would  any  one  touch  this  keepsake,  and  he 
pressed  it  to  his  lips  in  a  passionate  sadness,  for  he  had 

365 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

loved  his  mother  devotedly,  and  her  memory  was  a 
sacred  thing. 

Alverstone  had  hoped  that  the  Apache  leader  had 
mistaken  the  name  of  the  person,  but  now  it  was  quite 
clear  to  his  mind.  This  woman,  whom  he  had  seen 
as  he  had  come  up  the  terrace,  must,  then,  have  just  left 
the  Apache  chief. 

She  had  dropped  the  charm  here,  but  she  had  thought 
it  was  in  the  valley.  The  cloaked  figure  which  had  been 
searching  for  something  in  the  grass  when  he  had  mount- 
ed the  terrace;  and  the  person  who,  last  night  near  mid- 
night— on  a  little  street  that  adjoins  the  Boulevard  des 
Capucines — had  parted  company  from  another,  who  had 
said,  "As  strong  as  possible;"  and  the  instigator  of  this 
murder,  in  a  short  time  to  be  perpetrated  at  the  willow 
pool  in  the  lonely  Bois;  and  the  one  who  had  taken  this 
locket  from  him,  were  all  the  same — the  same  woman. 
His  mouth  fell  open — his  senses  were  staggered — he 
could  not  pronounce  the  name.  He  knew  it  was  an  ab- 
surd thought,  but  it  was  so.  Did  he  not  know  that  walk  ? 
How  blind  he  had  been!  But,  then,  who  would  have 
suspected?  Many  thoughts  rushed  confusedly  through 
his  brain. 

The  small  light  went  out,  and  Alverstone  heard  the 
chief  ask: 

"Have  you  got  your  spurs  fast?"  Then  there  was  a 
click  as  something  metal  fell  on  the  stone  pavement,  and 
Alverstone  heard  the  harsh  voice  of  Anatole  cry  out: 
"Turn  on  the  light.  I've  lost  my  spur." 

Then  the  light  came  on,  and  he  could  see  them  again. 
They  were  sitting  on  the  sepulchre,  tightening  very  sharp 
spurs ;  but  he  could  not  see  the  light-holder  and  the  chief. 
Rene  was  declaring  that  his  spurs  would  take  him  over 
a  wall  many  times  higher  than  the  cemetery  wall.  By 
this  Alverstone  knew  they  meant  to  scale  the  wall  of  the 

366 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

cemetery,  and  for  that  purpose  were  now  making  sure 
of  their  spurs.  He  felt  a  weakness  seize  him.  He  knew 
he  could  never  climb  this  wall;  he  was  powerless. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  climb?"  asked  the  light- 
holder. 

'Tast  the  Tunnel,"  answered  the  chief. 

"Then,  we  can  go  down  right  here,"  remarked  Ger- 
main. 

"Yes,  just  around  that  stone,  back  of  us,"  piped  the 
thin  voice  of  Rene,  and  he  indicated  the  mausoleum 
against  which  Alverstone  had  flattened  himself  as  best 
he  could.  "There  is  a  path  there  that  goes  down  to  the 
Avenue." 

Alverstone  hoped  that  they  would  put  out  their  light 
before  they  came  around  the  mausoleum;  but  with  all 
this  fear  he  was  glad  that  he  had  heard  how  to  gain  the 
entrance,  for  the  mention  of  the  avenue  that  could  be 
gained  by  going  down  a  path  had  recalled  to  Alver- 
stone's  mind  the  broad,  white  way  which  he  had  followed 
for  some  time  after  entering  the  cemetery.  Though  he 
could  not  remember  the  way  he  had  turned,  he  knew 
that  he  was  on  a  hill,  and  that  there  was  a  valley  some- 
where below.  He  had  learned  from  these  Apaches  that 
in  the  valley  was  an  avenue,  and  if  this  avenue  proved 
to  be  the  wide  way  he  had  followed  on  first  entering, 
he  remembered  that  the  viaduct  stretched  almost  directly 
over  one  end  of  this  particular  avenue.  There  were 
lights  on  this  viaduct,  and  by  means  of  these  he  could 
easily  gain  the  entrance,  which  was  very  near  the  end 
of  this  elevated  road. 

Alverstone  had  been  in  this  cemetery  but  once  be- 
fore in  his  life,  and  that  had  been  when  his  tutor  had 
taken  him  to  visit  the  burial  grounds  of  Paris.  He  was 
then  but  a  child  of  fourteen,  and  so  now  knew  little  of  the 
plan  of  the  cemetery.  He  determined  to  try,  if  possible, 

367 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

in  this  Stygian  darkness,  to  see  what  direction  down  the 
terrace  these  ruffians  might  take. 

The  mausoleums  around  him  were  so  close  to  one 
another  that  to  grope  one's  way  around  them  and  to  keep 
one's  bearings  would  be  well-nigh  impossible.  Besides, 
this  terraced  slope  was  long  and  descended  gently  to  the 
foot  of  the  hill.  And  Alverstone  felt  sure  that  if  these 
Apaches  had  not  mentioned  this  path  he  could  not  hope 
to  pick  his  way  down  the  terrace. 

The  light  went  out,  and  Alverstone  could  feel  the  pres- 
sure of  air  as  the  gang  rounded  the  side  of  the  mausoleum. 

They  passed  him,  and,  though  they  disappeared  like 
mice  when  the  cat  appears — quickly  and  softly — the  high 
tension  to  which  he  had  been  strung  made  him  keenly 
alive  to  the  sound  of  the  soft  pressure  of  the  tender 
grass  beneath  their  departing  footfalls. 

Alvenstone  strained  hard,  but  the  figures  were  soon 
undiscernible  in  the  blackness  of  the  night.  Then  he 
heard  the  high,  piping  voice  of  Rene  say: 

"The  path  is  rather  twisted.  If  you  don't  follow  me 
you'll  get  lost." 

Alverstone  felt  the  cold  perspiration  stand  out  and 
bead  all  over  him.  If  these  other  four  could  not  have 
found  their  way  down  the  terrace  without  Rene  as  guide, 
what  could  he  do?  His  last  hope  was  crushed.  He  was 
doomed  to  be  locked  up  in  the  cemetery  all  night,  and 
this  gruesome  deed  would  be  accomplished. 

Soon  he  was  left  alone  in  the  silence  and  in  the  dark- 
ness. The  white  sepulchres  rose  from  the  black  ground 
like  monitors,  for  amid  those  of  many  colors  some  were 
white  and  were  discernible  in  the  thickest  darkness.  The 
earth  was  covered  as  with  a  pall,  and  the  heavy  clouds 
pressed  their  inky  blackness  above  and  around  him.  The 
wind  had  started  to  blow  cold,  but  Alverstone  stood 
where  he  was,  motionless. 

368 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Julia  Pembroke  was  standing  before  her  wardrobe,  in 
the  boudoir,  buttoning  a  pair  of  long  white  gloves  which 
she  had  just  drawn  on. 

Her  position  was  such  that  her  reflected  self  showed  in 
profile  in  the  full-length  mirror,  which  covered  the  en- 
tire front  of  the  wardrobe.  She  was  dressed  and  ready 
for  the  drive  to  the  Trent's  place,  though  as  yet  it  was 
some  time  before  the  hour  which  she  had  named  as  the 
time  for  the  arrival  of  Madame  Cinati's  carriage,  in 
which  she  would  go  there.  The  dinner  was  not  until  six, 
and  she  had  yet  quite  a  while  to  wait.  Julia  had  started 
to  dress  quite  early,  for  since  she  had  met  Alverstone 
on  the  Boulevard  Haussmann  the  time  had  seemed  long 
and  wearisome,  and  she  had  really  suffered,  even  though 
she  had  tried  to  interest  herslf  in  learning  roles ;  so  she 
had  gladly  turned  to  the  distraction  of  dressing  much 
earlier  than  would  have  been  necessary. 

She  was  pleased  to  contemplate  the  result  of  this 
dressing,  but  before  the  joy  of  that  admiration  which 
to  a  beautiful  woman  is  a  world  of  joy,  there  crept  in 
that  peculiar  annoyance,  which  had  its  birth  in  the  un- 
kind notice  given  her  by  that  one  whom,  of  all  her  ac- 
quaintances, she  held  in  highest  regard — Hampton  Al- 
verstone. 

What  could  it  mean !  The  room  in  which  she  stood 
was  well  lighted,  and  on  some  of  the  chairs  were  many 
articles  of  clothing,  while  upon  her  dressing  table  were 
to  be  seen  many  accessories  of  a  lady's  toilet,  and  all  in 
great  disorder — a  veritable  pandemonium  prevailing 
throughout  the  atmosphere  of  the  room. 

369 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

To  one  acquainted  with  the  personal  habits  of  Julia 
Pembroke  it  was  certain  that  she  could  not  be  in  her 
usual  state  of  mind,  for,  unlike  most  persons  of  strictly 
cleanly  habits,  she  added  to  the  virtue  of  cleanliness  that 
other — its  twin-sister — orderliness. 

Her  face  just  now  was  sad.  She  fastened  the  last 
button  of  the  glove  which  she  was  buttoning,  then  pushed 
back  from  her  left  wrist,  well  up  on  her  arm  toward  the 
elbow,  the  bracelet  given  her  by  Madame  Nitolsk.  She 
stretched  out  her  arm  and  looked  at  the  bracelet  from 
this  side  and  from  that,  and  smiled  an  evident  satisfac- 
tion at  its  beauty  and  its  fitness  upon  her  shapely  arm. 
The  sparkling  of  the  precious  stones  pleased  her  and  she 
stood  quite  still  for  some  moments,  and  watched  the  play 
of  the  fascinating  colors  reflected  from  them. 

Her  face  almost  lost  its  sadness,  and  there  was  some- 
thing infantile  in  the  smile  which  played  around  her 
mouth.  Then  her  face  grew  thoughtful,  for  she  was 
thinking  of  the  difference  between  the  gift  of  a  child 
of  the  opulent  but  dreamy  East  and  that  of  a  child  of 
the  affluent  but  sturdily  stern  West. 

Then  she  thought  of  the  generosity  of  spirit  which 
had  prompted  Madame  Nitolsk  to  make  the  present. 
"So  kind,  so  very  kind  in  a  woman  of  her  place  in  the 
world  to  think  of  me  in  this  fashion,  and  she  seems  gen- 
uine in  her  profession  of  good  feeling  for  me.  I  am  cer- 
tainly fortunate  in  meeting  her — at  least,  no  harm  can 
ever  come  from  our  acquaintanceship." 

Then  she  looked  again  at  the  Julia  in  the  mirror, 
while  inclining  her  head  and  waist  toward  the  glass. 
There  was  reflected  a  front  view  of  her  face,  a  three- 
quarter  view  of  her  shoulders  and  chest  and  an  almost 
side  view  of  her  waist  and  skirt.  In  this  pose  she  saw 
the  beautifully  developed  and  powerful  chest  to  the  neat 
waist  and  incredibly  small  hips,  giving  the  impression  of 

370 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

great  strength  of  vocal  powers,  when  the  contatrice 
should  draw  upon  this  reserve  power  for  the  execution 
of  some  musical  phrase. 

The  beautifully  poised  neck,  such  as  any  queen  might 
look  upon  with  envy,  was  seen  and  noted  by  Julia,  and 
the  gently  sloping  shoulders,  in  perfect  symmetry  with 
the  other  portions  of  the  body,  made  her  alive  to  the 
keen  delight  a  woman  always  feels  in  a  survey  of  that 
form,  which,  of  all  created  things,  was  pronounced  the 
fairest.  She  saw  and  knew  that  she — Julia  Pembroke — 
had  developed  into  a  form  of  striking  beauty.  She  could 
not  help  seeing  this  if  she  looked  at  all  into  her  mirror. 

Madame  Nitolsk  was  not  so  beautiful  as  was  she. 
That  was  certainly  true.  Alverstone  might  be  pleased 
with  Madame  Nitolsk's  style  of  beauty,  but  she  felt  quite 
sure  he  must  be  far  more  pleased  with  the  beauty  of  her 
own  type.  However,  it  was  certain,  she  thought,  that  a 
beautiful  or  even  a  handsome  widow  is  at  all  times  a 
dangerous  rival  for  place  of  precedence  in  man's  esteem ; 
yet  the  beautiful  woman  in  her  mirror  smiled  at  her  most 
reassuringly,  and  Julia  was  pacified,  was  at  rest,  on  that 
point. 

Overwhelmingly  powerful,  though,  came  the  fierce 
thought,  why  had  he  so  cruelly  shot  that  relentless  glance 
at  her,  just  in  front  of  Maestro  Novara's,  and  a  few  mo- 
ments before  had  shown  her  intentional  slight — and  this, 
too,  when  she  was  just  then  in  a  state  of  bliss  at  remem- 
brance of  the  hour,  on  Christmas  eve — she  was  sure  he 
must  have  seen  her  begin  to  smile  her  happy  greeting — 
"Oh !  pshaw !"  she  exclaimed ;  "I  will  not  think  of  Hamp- 
ton Alverstone  in  this  fashion — he  is  far  from  me.  In 
the  Madeleine  I  settled  that  forever,  and  to  linger  in  the 
mystifying  atmosphere  is  simply  to  confess  a  desire  to 
throw  aside  the  career  for  which  I  have  an  unextinguish> 
able  longing. 

371 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"No,"  and  she  stamped  her  foot  as  she  crossed  the 
room  and  looked  out  through  the  lace  curtains  covering 
the  window.  She  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  her 
little  clock  on  the  mantel.  It  was  not  time  yet  for  the 
carriage.  She  turned  and  walked  back  toward  the  mir- 
ror, in  which  she  had  an  entire  view  of  herself,  and 
when  some  few  feet  from  it  she  paused  and  started  to 
sing  the  last  portion  of  the  Queen  Margherita's  aria  in 
the  second  act  of  "Gli  Ugonotti,"  at  the  same  time 
taking  up  her  fan,  which  hung  from  a  long,  delicate  gold 
chain  around  her  neck,  and  fanning  with  the  fascinating 
movement  which  she  had  seen  the  incomparable  Madame 
Sembrich  give  to  her  fan  during  her  singing  of  this  same 
aria. 

After  the  first  few  notes  were  thrown  out  upon  the 
stillness  of  her  quiet  surroundings,  her  mood  changed. 
All  thoughts  of  Hampton  Alverstone  were  gone,  and  she 
was  singing  as  only  a  great  lyric  soprano  can  sing  when 
under  the  inspiration  of  truth  to  the  moving  spirit  of  her 
being — the  spirit  of  song. 

On  and  on  she  sang,  every  note  sending  delight  to  her 
soul,  for,  despite  the  indisposition  from  the  last  night's 
experience,  she  was  singing  gloriously,  and  she  knew  it, 
and  she  was  pleased  accordingly — pleased  with  herself — 
pleased  with  her  song.  On  she  sped,  happy  as  the  feath- 
ered songstress  in  its  most  thrilling  roundelay,  and  until 
— yes,  until  she  reached  a  note  much  sweeter,  much  more 
touching  than  those  gone  before. 

She  had  listened  to  each  note,  as  was  her  habit,  but 
what  was  this  which  startled  her  into  self-consciousness ! 

The  fan  ceased  its  motion,  and  as  she  slowly,  softly 
descended  the  irregular  grupettos  the  melody  began  to 
speak.  She  repeated  the  lingering  words  "D'amore  fa- 
vella" — of  the  tender  phrase,  then  on  again,  though  now 
rather  hesitatingly —  La  terra,  il  cielo  d'amore  favell'  " — 

372 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

That  the  meaning  of  the  words  now  struck  at  her 
heart's  burden  was  plainly  visible  upon  her  face,  but  she 
sang  on.  Though  faintly  and  half  absently,  she  took  the 
notes — "favella  d'  amore" — taking  the  high  B  and  slowly 
descending  the  octave  on  the  last  word.  The  fan 
dropped  from  the  limp  fingers  and  the  hand  fell  heavily 
against  her  side. 

The  voice  ceased  its  singing,  the  head  drooped  and 
she  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  floor.  While  Julia  had 
been  singing  a  persistent  diminuendo  had  stolen  the  notes 
to  a  forte  pianissimo,  until  as  "d'amore"  was  taken  on 
the  high  B  and  slowly  followed  down  the  scale,  the  notes 
became  only  a  sighing  tune,  whispered  in  sound,  and  then 
all  music  ceased,  and  that  same  half  word  and  the  word, 
"d'amore,"  were  repeated  slowly  and  far  down  in  a  clear 
voice. 

A  deep,  subtle  tone  of  an  understanding  heart  vi- 
brated each  syllable.  She  listened,  for  the  heart  was 
speaking  and  the  mind  was  grasping  what  the  heart  said. 

Julia  knew  the  Italian  like  her  mother  tongue,  and, 

"Ah  questa  voce  sola 

Natura  par  piti  bella, 
La  terra,  I'aura,  il  del 
D'amor  favella" 

did  not  mean  a  graceful  connection  of  pretty  sounding 
words,  but  the  expression  of  the  sentiment  contained  in 
the  words, 

"To  this  voice  alone 

Does  all  nature  respond, 
Heaven,  ether  and  earth, 
All  speak  of  love." 


373 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

The  meaning  of  this  song  came  in  upon  her  most 
forcibly — its  import,  how  it  swayed  the  world,  and  this 
same  sentiment  was  that  which  she  had  struggled  to 
crush  under  foot  and  was  still  struggling  to  keep  down. 

The  hot  blood  mounted  to  her  face  and  she  grew 
sick,  but  she  did  not  change  her  gaze  from  the  floor; 
she  was  thinking  that  she  was  certainly  weak  to  allow 
this  aria  so  to  disturb  her,  when  she  had  joyously  begun 
the  singing  of  it — singing,  that  she  might  fill  her  mind 
with  her  beloved  work  and  forget  the  man  around  whom 
now  centered  the  sentiments  6f  this  beautiful  aria  of 
Meyerbeer's  "Ugonotti";  but  she  soon  smiled  faintly, 
for,  thought  she,  "Am  I  not  true  to  nature,  in  that  I 
love  this  man  ?"  She  answered  the  interrogation  herself : 
"Yes,  I  am  true  to  the  nature  of  my  being,  and  I  am 
sure — quite  sure — that  it  will  be  very  difficult  for  me  to 
cast  away  the  love  Hampton  Alverstone  has  inspired 
within  me.  Yes,  I  love  Hampton  Alverstone,  but  my 
song  shall  more  than  compensate  for  this  loss." 

A  soft  tapping  at  the  door  roused  her  from  her  rev- 
erie, which  she  finished  with  the  thought:  "I  now  crush 
out  that  love  completely;  at  least,  I  shall  crush  out  the 
disposition  to  entertain  thoughts  of  him  whom  I  love 
so  passionately.  But  after  one  has  loved  as  I  love  Hamp- 
ton Alverstone,  to  forget  is  not  so  easy;  in  fact,  I  can 
not  forget  him." 

"Ah !  Mademoiselle,  the  carriage  is  at  the  door,"  said 
the  concierge,  at  whose  knock  Julia  had  opened  the  door. 
"Can  I  help  you  in  any  way?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Julia;  "come  in  and  put  on  my  cloak, 
please."  And,  going  into  the  boudoir,  she  signified  the 
cloak  she  meant  to  wear  with,  "There,  on  that  chair  yon- 
der, is  my  cloak,  Marguerite." 

The  concierge  bent  to  take  up  the  lovely  creation, 
but  instead  lifted  her  hands  in  a  surprised  exclamation, 

374 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

as  she  said :  "How  beautiful !  how  beautiful !"  This  cloak 
the  concierge  had  not  before  seen,  and  she  could  not  re- 
press her  delight  at  sight  of  it,  for  it  had  only  been  this 
morning  that  Julia  had  received  it  from  Madame  Cinati 
as  her  Christmas  present.  It  was  very  beautiful,  fash- 
ioned without  sleeves,  and  falling  from  the  shoulders  with 
a  bell-flare  to  the  bottom  of  her  dress.  The  high,  rolling 
collar  was  of  the  richest  quality  of  chinchilla,  while  down 
the  front  and  around  the  bottom  was  a  broad  band  of  the 
same  handsome  fur.  It  was  of  a  rose-colored  stuff,  that 
had  a  silken  sheen,  while  the  lining  was  brocaded  and 
matched  in  color  the  fur  trimming. 

When  it  was  adjusted  Julia  stepped  back  so  that  the 
light  from  the  electrolier  fell  full  upon  her. 

The  concierge  clasped  her  hands  in  admiration,  say- 
ing :  "Oh !  Mademoiselle !  Mademoiselle !  you  are  very 
beautiful." 

"You  mean  my  cloak  is  beautiful,"  Julia  made  answer, 
good-humoredly,  for  she  herself  was  truly  pleased  with 
the  charming  creature  reflected  from  the  mirror  across 
the  way,  and  Julia  did  appear  extraordinarily  beautiful 
on  this  particular  evening.  The  rose  of  the  cloak  gave 
color  to  her  face,  which  was  a  little  pale  from  the  illness 
of  last  night. 

The  soft,  white  crepe  de  Chine  dress  was  the  same 
which  she  had  worn  Tuesday  night  at  the  Trent  recep- 
tion. The  same  short  string  of  pearls  was  around  her 
neck.  The  hair  was  softly  parted  and  done  low  at  the 
back  of  the  neck,  where  a  single  rose,  of  the  shade  of  her 
cloak  nestled.  Her  bearing  was  regal,  and  the  expression 
of  the  face,  though  pleased  with  her  appearance,  yet 
showed  signs  of  the  late  heart  struggle,  and  gave  a 
slight  sadness  to  the  otherwise  lovely  face. 

When  Julia  stepped  out  of  the  house  she  had  to  go  up 
a  trifle,  for  the  carriage  had  not  stopped  directly  in  front 

375 


AN   AMERICAN    SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

of  the  entrance,  as  was  its  custom,  but  she  remarked 
nothing  upon  this  departure  from  the  usual.  She  was 
young  and  strong  and  happy,  and,  best  of  all,  sensible — 
not  at  all  a  slave  to  the  fastidiousness  of  fashion — and 
so,  without  the  slightest  protestation  for  their  remissness 
of  duty,  she  went  up  to  where  the  carriage  stood,  shaded 
from  the  glare  of  the  strong  light  thrown  out  of  the 
lighted  hall.  The  stars  were  just  beginning  to  peek  out, 
and  the  heavy  clouds  were  chasing  themselves,  so  that 
an  hour,  in  all  probability,  would  see  the  sky  cloudless. 

The  silver  mountings  on  the  harness  flashed  in  the 
semi-darkness,  while  the  horses  themselves  chafed  rest- 
lessly at  their  bits  and  nervously  lifted  and  stamped  their 
beautiful  feet. 

The  livery  of  the  attendants  was  perfect — one,  whip 
and  reins  in  hand  and  perched  erect,  upon  the  high  box ; 
the  other,  standing  beside  the  carriage  door,  waiting  un- 
til Mademoiselle  should  make  her  appearance,  when  he 
would  open  the  door  for  her  entrance. 

Taken  in  its  entirety,  the  gay  city  of  Paris  furnished 
no  handsomer  turn-out  than  that  of  Madame  Cinati,  and 
when  the  fair  creature,  wrapped  in  the  rose-colored  man- 
tle, rested  her  foot  on  the  step,  preparatory  to  entering 
the  carriage,  the  sight  was  infinitely  more  pleasing;  and 
as  she  inclined  forward  the  light  from  within  the  carriage 
fell  upon  the  small,  imperially  formed  crown  of  her  head, 
and  farther  down,  upon  the  soft  folds  of  the  cloak.  The 
reflection  of  the  lightened  sheen  of  the  rose  silk  met  and 
mingled  with  the  reflections  of  the  burnished  gold  of  her 
hair,  and,  of  course,  there  were  shadows  too. 

Then  the  door  closed  and  the  carriage  rolled  quickly 
away  and  was  soon  rounding  the  Arc  de  Triomphe.  The 
hoofs  of  the  horses  sounded  as  soft  as  the  hoofs  of 
chased  deer  that  run  over  a  stony  way,  for  the  pavement 
was  the  wooden  pavement  of  Paris,  and  this  dull  roar 

376 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

was  the  well-bred  voice  of  the  city — the  gentle,  half- 
toned  voice  of  aristocratic  Paris. 

Julia  thought  the  servants  kind,  indeed,  to  have  been 
so  thoughtful  of  her  wishes,  for  they  had  drawn  across 
the  silk  curtains  that  she  might  be  in  the  enjoyment 
of  strictest  privacy.  She  had  never  required  this  serv- 
ice at  their  hand,  and  she  could  not  but  notice  it,  and  con- 
sider it  as  an  especial  kindness  shown  her ;  for  she  knew 
they  were  proud  of  their  carriage  and  its  occupants,  and 
would  have  preferred  the  interior  shown  through  draped 
curtains,  than  to  have  secreted  the  prettiness  within  by 
drawn  curtains. 

Julia  Pembroke  was  alone  with  happy  thoughts.  The 
distance  from  her  apartment  to  the  mansion  on  the 
Champs  Elysees  was  not  great,  and  after  riding  some 
time  she  thought  they  must  certainly  soon  arrive  there. 
She  leaned  forward  and  to  one  side,  pushed  back  the 
little  silk  hanging  before  the  window  to  look  out  and 
judge  by  some  well-known  point  along  the  avenue  just 
where  she  was,  when — Oh !  horrors !  had  she  suddenly 
gone  blind?  What  was  this  Stygian  blackness  that  met 
her  searching  eye?  No,  she  was  not  blind,  for  she  could 
see,  as  usual,  by  the  inside  light  of  the  carriage.  She 
grasped  hard  at  the  curtain  and  strained  to  see  in  the 
darkness,  but  not  a  ray  of  light  anywhere  was  to  be  seen. 
Where  was  she?  She  listened;  they  were  on  ground 
now,  and  not  on  the  wooden  pavement  of  Champs  Ely- 
sees  Avenue.  She  had  been  too  preoccupied  to  notice 
when  they  had  left  the  pavements.  At  first  a  slight  fear 
seized  her,  but  she  quickly  dismissed  it  with  the  thought 
that  the  footman  had  mistaken  her  order.  She  dropped 
the  curtain  and  called  through  the  speaking  tube :  "Foot- 
man!" 

"Oui,  Madame,"  came,  in  answer,  back  through  the 
tube. 

377 


AN   AMERICAN    SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

"The  order  was  to  the  Prince  de  Loire's,  on  the 
Champs  Elysees,"  and  Julia's  accents  were  commanding; 
but  she  was  already  frightened,  for  his  voice,  though  dis- 
torted, as  voices  always  are  through  trumpets,  did  not 
sound  to  her  like  that  of  Madame  Cinati's  footman. 

"He!  ha!"  came  through  the  tube,  in  answer,  and 
with  a  sharp  crack  of  a  whip  the  carriage  lunged  for- 
ward, as  the  horses  dashed  off  under  the  cutting  blow. 

"We'll  go  some  place  else  now,"  came  to  her,  in  the 
thin,  high  voice  of  the  footman.  "You  need  not  cry  out — 
no  help  can  reach  you — we  are  in  the  depths  of  the  Bois. 
So  be  still,  my  pretty  one." 

At  this  intelligence  Julia  sat  stiffly  upright  and  stared 
wildly  for  some  moments.  In  the  Bois!  What!  Oh! 
What  could  this  mean !  Surely,  some  great  mistake — or 
could  it  be  that  the  servants  of  Madame  Cinati  would  be 
guilty  of  an  irregularity !  No,  no,  that  could  never  be ! 

She  recalled  now  that  she  had  not  noticed  the  car- 
riage and  servants,  for,  as  was  her  custom,  she  had 
given  the  number  of  the  Trents  to  the  footman  without 
so  much  as  a  glance  at  him,  and,  though  all  had  struck 
her  as  the  carriage  and  servants  of  Madame  Cinati,  yet 
now  she  realized  that  she  might  have  been  mistaken; 
and,  too,  she  recalled  that  they  had  not  been  standing  in 
front  of  the  door  of  her  apartment  house,  yet  she  had 
not  felt  the  slightest  suspicion  of  an  irregularity.  Could 
it  be  that  she  had  taken  a  carriage  meant  for  some  one 
else?  No,  that  were  not  to  be  considered  at  all,  for  the 
footman  had  rung  at  the  lodge  door  and  had  given  the 
concierge  orders  to  tell  her  that  the  carriage  was  waiting, 
and  when  she  had  come  out  of  the  street  door  there  was 
no  other  carriage  in  sight,  and  this  one  surely  was  Mad- 
ame Cinati's;  for,  had  it  not  been  hers,  there  would 
have  been  something  unfamiliar  to  arrest  her  attention — 
and  she  recalled  the  exact  pose  of  the  coachman  and 

378 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

his  very  characteristically  peculiar  perch  upon  the  box — • 
all  had  appeared  as  should  be.  How  could  a  mistake 
occur?  She  herself  had  told  the  footman,  when  he  had 
left  her  in  the  afternoon,  that  she  would  want  the  car- 
riage at  this  hour,  and  this  carriage  had  come  at  the  ex- 
act time  and  had  called  for  her. 

A  hundred  such  thoughts  flitted  through  her  brain  in  a 
whirl.  Julia  did  not  know  that  a  telephonic  message 
countermanding  the  order  she  had  given  had  gone  to  the 
stables  of  Madame  Cinati  just  when  the  horses  were  har- 
nessing to  serve  her.  And  this  message  had  been  to  the 
effect  that  she  would  require  no  carriage  that  evening. 
Then,  as  a  further  assurance  that  she  had  not  taken  a 
wrong  carriage,  at  least  one  waiting  for  some  one  else, 
she  looked  around  for  the  little  mirror,  when,  lo!  no 
mirror,  nor  place  for  one,  was  to  be  seen. 

Oh !  horrors !  Now  she  felt  certain  that  some  foul 
deed  was  perpetrating.  Her  head  reeled  and  she  felt 
faint,  but  she  drew  herself  together  again  and  demanded 
in  as  stentorian  tones  as  her  voice  would  permit: 

"Footman,  who  are  you?  Answer  me  at  once.  Who 
are  you?" 

After  a  short  silence,  the  only  answer  was  a  blood- 
curdling "Ha!  ha!  ha!"  sent  in  through  the  speaking 
tube. 

"Oh!  do  tell  me  what  this  all  means!  I  plead  with 
you,  tell  me,  tell  me !  tell  me !"  cried  Julia,  distractedly. 

But  the  heart  of  the  man  was  not  touched. 

"Save  me !"  called  Julia,  through  the  tube.  "Save 
me,  for  the  sake  of  your  mother,  and  I  will  make  you 
all  so  rich  that  you  will  never  again  do  this  for  money." 

"We're  hired  to  take  you  this  ride,  and  we  never  fail 
to  finish  the  job  we  begin,"  was  the  reply  made  to  her 
offer. 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

She  turned  and  pulled  wildly  at  the  doors,  but  they 
did  not  open;  they  were  securely  fastened.  She  then 
pounded  on  the  glass,  crying: 

"Help!  help!  help!"  But  no  help  came,  and  the 
horses  did  not  stop.  Instead,  they  dashed  on  at  a  furir 
ously  dizzying  rate  of  speed. 

Again  came  in  through  the  speaking  tube:  "Keep 
quiet,  my  dame.  You're  too  noisy.  You're  safe  in  our 
keeping,  and  there  you'll  stay  till  we  send  you  to  — ." 

Perhaps  they  meant  to  kill  her!  How  horrible  to  die 
so  young!  Something  clutched  at  her  heart.  Why  could 
not  some  one  help  her?  Where  was  she  going?  She 
was  in  the  lonely  Bois  and  at  night!  Hope  fled  for  an 
instant  and  she  sat  paralyzed  with  terror.  Suddenly 
through  this  appalling  darkness  shone  a  ray  of  light. 
It  was  a  very  faint  ray  to  one  so  nervously  overwrought, 
nevertheless,  it  was  sufficient  to  penetrate  the  diabolical 
blackness  at  this  moment  surrounding  her,  and  with 
sweet  insistence  it  entered  her  soul,  for  it  shone  with  a 
steady  light,  and  she  had  fixed  her  soul's  eye  upon  it. 
It  was  a  gleam  from  that  far-off  star  beneath  whose 
influence  she  had  spent  the  first  seven  years  of  her  life. 

Who  was  that  speaking?  Surely,  she  heard  a  loving 
voice  say:  "Julia  Pembroke,  never  forget  to  pray  to 
God."  She  listened,  understood  and  obeyed.  She  sent 
out  and  up  an  agonizing  prayer  for  deliverance  from  the 
evil  into  which  she  had  fallen,  and  which  threatened  her 
with  dire  calamity — perhaps  with  death. 

The  sudden  relaxing  by  her  trustful  prayer  of  the 
severe  tension  her  nervous  organization  had  suffered 
from  the  awful  fright  of  the  past  few  minutes,  brought 
about  that  peculiar  condition — a  form  of  faint — in  which 
she  was  able  to  hear,  feel  and  understand  all  which 
transpired  around  her,  but  in  which  she  was  denied  the 
sense  of  sight  and  the  power  of  speech — not  able  to  give 

380 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN  PARIS. 

forth  even  a  weakest  moan.  Nor  was  she  left  the  power 
oi  motion  sufficient  to  make  the  slightest  movement. 

The  carriage  stopped  abruptly  and  the  door  was 
«pened  from  without.  She  felt  two  strong  arms  lay 
hold  on  her  and  lift  her  out  of  the  carriage.  There  was 
a  great  noise  and  confusion  on  every  side,  and  she  heard 
a  man's  voice  speaking  loudly  and  hurriedly,  but  her 
mind  was  confused,  and  she  could  not  understand  what 
he  said. 

The  sense  of  sight  had  returned,  and  she  looked  up 
and  saw  that  the  man  who  held  her  had  on  a  battered 
felt  hat,  and  that  his  clothes  were  ragged  and  that  he 
presented  a  wretchedly  degraded  appearance. 

This  man,  she  thought,  was  to  kill  her.  She  was  too 
weak  to  struggle,  though  she  had  recovered  from  her 
faint  enough  to  gasp  and  feebly  cry: 

"Mercy — mercy !  I  beg  of  you  do  not  kill  me !" 

No  attention  was  given  to  her  beseechment,  for  the 
mind  of  this  taterdemalion  was  discordant  with  sounds 
of  a  fierce  time  just  at  hand,  and  she  was  carried  to  some 
distance,  where  he  put  her  down  upon  the  wet  grass. 

Great  trees  loomed  up  in  the  darkness  about  her. 
She  looked  up  and  saw  a  patch  of  sky  above  her,  and  in 
it  were  many  stars,  and  these  renewed  the  strain  of  hope, 
through  faith  in  sincere  trust  in  a  protecting  Providence. 
But  whence  could  help  come  now?  It  was  plain  that  this 
was  the  end  of  life  for  her.  Then  a  band  of  light  came 
before  her  eyes;  she  felt  blinded.  Her  eyes  closed,  for 
the  light  was  dazzling,  and  she  could  see  nothing  around. 
She  wondered  if  she  were  dead  and  if  this  brightness 
was  of  the  other  world ! 

"Julia!"  She  heard  her  name  exclaimed.  "My  God! 
it  is  Julia!" 

Her  head  had  fallen  back,  and  a  little  to  one  side,  so, 
as  she  opened  her  eyes,  when  her  name  was  pronounced 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

the  bright  flash  light  did  not  fall  upon  her  face,  but 
straight  upon  the  face  bending  over  her. 

"Hampton !"  Julia  gasped,  hoarsely ;  for  it  was  Hamp- 
ton Alverstone  who  bent  over  her,  and  his  strong  arms 
were  now  about  her  in  a  quick,  protecting  enfoldment; 
for  she  was  again  losing  consciousness,  and  this  time 
life  was  a  blank — an  utter  blank. 

Alverstone  lifted  her  up  and  carried  her  away  from 
where  he  had  found  her  to  some  distance  off,  out  of 
sight  of  this  spot;  and  he  did  not  slacken  his  pace  uniti 
he  turned  a  second  corner  and  a  green  light,  a  few  paces 
ahead,  lit  up  a  pending  board,  on  which  could  be  read  the 
number  12367. 

As  he  came  nearer,  the  shape  of  an  automobile  was 
discernible  in  the  darkness.  Obviously,  every  precaution 
for  concealment  had  been  taken.  The  headlight  had  been 
hooded,  and  no  light,  save  the  small  green  one  on  the 
back,  could  be  seen,  as  the  car  loomed  up  in  the  open — 
in  the  depths  of  that  historic  old  forest — the  Bois  de 
Boulogne. 

As  Alverstone,  with  Julia  still  in  his  arms,  raised  his 
foot  to  step  into  his  automobile,  the  chauffeur  having 
opened  the  door,  when  he  heard  his  master  approaching, 
a  bullet  whizzed  over  his  head. 

"Look  out!"  cried  a  voice  in  loud,  shrill  tones,  and 
in  the  direction  from  which  Alverstone  had  just  come. 
Then,  following  the  voice,  came  a  second  bullet,  but 
closer  than  had  the  first,  and  there  was  the  near  report 
of  a  revolver,  which  could  not  be  far  off. 

Alverstone  understood  and  called  back  in  a  loud, 
steady  voice :  "All  right !"  then  stepped  into  the  automo- 
bile and  put  Julia  upon  the  seat  and  tenderly  wrapped 
her  cloak  about  her.  He  stood  up,  breathing  quickly, 
for  it  was  necessary  to  get  his  breath  before  attempting 
to  speak. 

382 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

The  curtains  were  drawn,  as  had  been  those  of  the 
carriage  in  which  she  had  been  spirited  to  the  Bois;  but 
for  what  a  different  purpose!  Those  for  diabolical  pur- 
poses, these  for  purposes  of  delicacy. 

Julia  had  now  fully  recovered  consciousness,  for  the 
report  of  the  revolver  had  aroused  her. 

Just  as  Alverstone  turned  on  the  electric  light  the  man 
in  tatters  and  with  the  hat  battered,  came  up.  Julia  saw 
him  and  she  recoiled  in  fright,  ior  she  thought  him  to 
be  an  Apache — the  one  who  had  taken  her  from  the 
carriage,  and  whom  she  had  supposed  was  about  to  kill 
her  at  the  time  that  Alverstone  had  rescued  her ;  but  she 
quickly  saw  her  mistake,  for  Alverstone  smiled  a  cordial 
greeting  and  stepped  down  from  the  motor  car,  and  a 
few  steps  to  the  left  of  the  door,  where  he  stood  while 
speaking  with  the  man. 

"Are  you  going  to  take  charge  of  the  young  lady?" 
he  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  Alverstone ;  "she  is  a  friend  of  mine." 

Julia  could  hear  distinctly  what  they  were  saying, 
but  she  could  not  see  the  man  longer,  while  she  had  a 
side  view  of  Alverstone. 

"I  shall  see  her  home,  at  once." 

"Ah,  very  well,"  replied  the  man. 

"Were  any  of  you  hurt?"  It  was  Alverstone  who 
asked  the  question. 

"No,  fortunately;  but  it  was  a  close  call." 

"Did  any  get  away?" 

"None  that  we  have  seen.  We  have  three  fast,  hand- 
cuffed and  in  our  car,  yonder." 

"From  what  I  heard  in  the  cemetery  I  don't  think 
there  were  any  others,"  said  Alverstone. 

"But,"  replied  the  stranger,  "it  is  best  to  be  on  guard. 
No  telling  who  these  fellows  may  have  standing  some- 
where behind  a  tree  on  the  way  out." 

383 


AN   AMERICAN    SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

.  .  ,.  .^ 

"Do  these  fellows  say  anything?"  interrupted  Alver- 
stone. 

"No,  not  a  word;  all  silent  as  the  rocks.  These  men 
are  only  the  tools  of  some  one  rich — very  rich,  too.  They 
do  not  work  for  nothing ;  especially  are  they  well  paid  for 
work  of  this  sort." 

Then  they  went  on  more  hurriedly  than  at  first,  and 
Julia  gave  no  further  heed  to  them.  She  was  safe  now 
and,  dismissing  all  fear,  she  began  to  revolve  within  her 
mind  if  perchance  she  could  find  therein  aught  that  might 
disclose  to  her  the  name  of  one  who  could  possibly  en- 
tertain for  her  a  spirit  of  hatred  strong  enough  to  lead 
to  a  deed  of  this  nature.  But,  try  as  she  would,  she  could 
find  no  such  one.  She  knew  not  one  in  all  the  wqrld 
whose  treatment  of  her  could  justify  a  suspicion  as  per- 
petrator of  this  dastardly  attempt.  Then  there  was  that 
other  question,  fully  as  unanswerable  as  the  one  just  left: 
"How  came  Alverstone  to  be  here?  How  had  he  come, 
to  know  of  this?"  It  pleased  her  to  think  that  he  had 
rescued  her  from  danger,  and  that  in  the  Bois — the  his- 
toric woods  known  for  centuries  as  the  place  of  deeds 
of  darkest  hue.  It  awakened  the  romantic  within  her, 
which,  expressed  or  suppressed,  lies  within  the  bosom 
of  every  human  being. 

Yes,  truly  he  was  a  knight,  and  as  real  a  one  as  ever 
galloped  to  the  rescue  of  a  fair  lady.  She  was  the  lady 
in  a  beautiful  fairy  tale,  and  Alverstone  was  the  hand- 
some, brave  knight,  who  had  come  to  rescue  her,-  and 
who  did  rescue  her,  and  in  as  brave  a  manner  as  did  the 
knight  of  the  good  times  olden.  And  now  he  was  shield- 
ing her  in  his  motor  car,  which  for  magnificence  far  sur- 
passed the  superlative  degree  of  the  imagination  of  the 
fairy  godmother,  who  always  furnished  the  means  of 
transportation  for  the  return  home  of  all  knightly  rescues. 

384 


AN   AMERICAN    SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

Julia  might  be  pardoned  for  this  bit  of  imagery,  for 
the  reactionary  force  was  great  indeed,  well-nigh  enough 
to  unbalance  the  mind  of  one  not  so  well  poised  mentally. 

In  less  than  an  hour  before  she  had  been  riding  with 
what  had  been  her  murderers — demons  of  the  fairy  tale — 
but  for  the  timely  arrival  of  her  knight,  with  whom  she 
was  now  riding  quietly  and  in  a  delirium  of  joy. 

She  was  awakened  from  her  sweet  love  dream  by: 

"Good-night,  Monsieur  Alverstone,"  and  the  response : 

"Good-night,  Monsieur  le  police." 

Then  Alverstone  turned  to  the  chauffeur  and  gave 
the  number  of  Julia's  house,  after  which  he  stepped  into 
the  automobile  and  it  rolled  away  quickly  and  quietly; 
and  the  fairy  godmother  of  centuries  past  gazed  in 
wondering  awe  at  the  speedy  flight  of  the  thing  her 
chariot  could  not  equal  in  its  swiftest  flight. 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
then  Julia  spoke : 

"Oh !  you  are  so  good,  so  kind,  so  noble,  to  save  me 
from  what  was  surely  the  end  of  life  for  me !  I  have 
no  words  in  which  to  express  my  deep  sense  of  grati- 
tude for  this  heroic  devotion  to  me." 

Alverstone   made   no   reply. 

"You  think  these  men  intended  to  kill  me,  do  you 
not?"  again  put  Julia. 

Again  no  verbal  reply,  but  he  shook  his  head  in 
assent,  while  his  deep-souled  eyes  rested  upon  her  with 
a  gaze  that  was  almost  stern  in  its  steadiness. 

"Oh !  what  is  the  matter,  Hampton  ?  I  see  you  are 
angry  with  me,  and  you  came  not  to  save  me,  not  for 
love's  sake,  but  as  a  duty." 

"Julia — I  mean  Miss  Pembroke" — 

"Oh !  do  not  call  me  Miss ;  call  me  as  you  did  last 
night  at  the  Madeleine."  She  leaned  forward,  and,  taking 
his  hand,  held  it  tensely,  continuing :  "You  are  my  savior 

385 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

from  this  horror;  you  are  my  avowed  lover,  and  I  love 
you  as  well.  Then  why  not  call  me  Julia?  .  We  are 
good  Americans  and  fully  understand  each  other." 

"Ah !  if  we  only  did,"  was  Alverstone's  reply,  half 
moaned.  Then  he  resumed  his  stern,  set  gaze. 

"Tell  me !  tell  me !  all  you  know !" 

Julia  had  grown  so  demonstrative  that  Alverstone 
questioned  the  advisability  of  complying  with  her  request ; 
but  finally,  in  a  few  brief  sentences,  told  her  the  gist  of 
the  entire  happenings  from  his  sudden  contact  with  the 
Apache  band  in  the  cemetery  to  the  moment  when  he  rec- 
ognized her  here  in  the  Bois.  How,  after  the  departure  of 
the  Apaches,  he  had  groped  his  way  about  in  the  darkness, 
trying  to  find  his  way  out  of  the  cemetery,  but  without 
success,  and  had  given  up  in  despair,  when,  suddenly, 
gleaming  far  off  in  the  distance,  he  had  seen  a  light, 
which  had  proven  to  be  a  light  on  the  viaduct,  and  with 
it  as  a  guide  he  had  regained  his  bearings  and  had 
reached  the  elevated  way  and  soon  had  been  at  the  gate — 
the  entrance  to  Montmartre  Cemetery ;  how  that  gate  had 
been  locked  for  the  night,  but  that  the  keeper  had  been 
inside,  where  he  chanced  to  be  arguing  the  pros  and  cons 
of  a  question  at  issue  in  the  coming  election ;  and,  after 
a  severe  reprimand  for  not  obeying  the  summons  of  the 
closing  bell,  the  gate  had  been  opened  and  he  had  then 
rushed  to  the  police ;  and  how  they  had  reached  the  place 
appointed  by  the  Apaches,  and  from  their  ambush  the 
police  had  taken  the  one  sent  to  commit  the  deed,  and 
then  how  one  policeman  had  disguised  himself  by  putting 
on  the  clothes  of  the  Apache  just  arrested,  when  the 
carriage  with  her  in  it  had  come  to  a  stand,  as  precon- 
certed; and  that  was  all,  for  now  she  was  safe,  and 
would  soon  be  in  the  quiet  and  security  of  her  apart- 
ment. 

386 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

He  told  all,  simply  and  without  impulsive  accent,  for 
he  had  never  wished  to  appear  the  hero. 

"Oh!  no,  I  am  not  safe;  surely  an  impending  doom 
hangs  over  me,  for  only  last  night  some  woman,  in  a 
long  cloak,  put  flowers  in  my  room  while  I  was  at  the 
Madeleine,  and  in  the  night  I  was  taken  ill — very  ill — 
and  Madame  Cinati  thinks  the  roses  caused  my  illness. 
She  sent  them  for  chemical  examination,  and  had  she  not 
been  in  Paris,  in  all  probability  I  should  have  died  from 
their  noxiousness." 

Alverstone  was  horrified  at  this  disclosure,  and  in- 
stantly understood  the  meaning  of  the  words :  "As  strong 
as  possible." 

He  realized  that  for  Julia's  safety  he  must  tell  her 
of  this  secret  movement  against  her;  but  he  would  not 
do  so  now.  He  would  speak  to  her  of  it  to-morrow.  She 
would  be  safe  until  then.  She  went  on  and  told  him  all — 
how  the  Trents  had  taken  her  to  the  station  to  see  Mad- 
ame Cinati  leave  on  the  noon  train,  and  afterwards  had 
gone  on  through  the  Bois,  for  the  purpose  of  restoring 
her  to  her  normal  self,  as  Lady  Trent  had  expressed  it. 

Alverstone's  face  grew  ashen. 

"Are  you  ill  ?"  asked  Julia,  in  feverish  anxiety. 

"No,  Julia,  I  am  not.  I  was  unkind — I  was  cruel. 
I  saw  you  with  the  Trents  in  the  Bois,  but  you  did  not 
see  me." 

"Ah!"  she  said,  tenderly,  lovingly;  "and  you  were 
jealous." 

This  was  a  question. 

"Yes,  Julia;  madly,  insanely  jealous." 

"Now,  now,  my  dear ;  did  I  not  tell  you  that  I  loved 
no  one  but  Hampton  Alverstone?" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  replied. 

"And  that  I  would  marry  no  one  but  Hampton  Alver- 
stone, if  ever  I  married?"  she  continued. 

387 


AN   AMERICAN    SINGER   IN    PARIS. 

''Yes,  Julia,  you  did;  but  true  love  is  always  jeal- 
ous. How  can  it  be  otherwise?  It  is  all  very  well  to  see 
those  held  dear  to  us,  as  Brutus  held  his  Portia — his 
right,  his  honorable  wife — enjoying  a  pleasant  time  with 
others  of  the  opposite  sex ;  but  it  is  not  in  nature  that 
true  love  views,  without  a  pang,  the  loved  one  on  the 
heights  in  loves  other  than  his  own." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see,  I  understand  you,  Hampton ;  I  un- 
derstand you  fully.  But  I  meant  no  coquetry,  and  I  am 
sorry,  indeed,  if  I  caused  you  pain ;  but  it  seems  you 
might  trust  me  a  little  more  fully  than  this." 

She  paused,  and  they  were  silent  for  some  little  time. 
Julia,  mentally  questioning  whether  she  should  tell  him 
that  he  had  seen  her  chatting  thus  gayly  with  her  cousin, 
Reginald  Trent,  and  not  with  Lieutenant  Trent,  a  com- 
parative stranger — one  whom  she  had  known  but  a  few 
days.  But  no,  she  would  not  tell  him;  she  would  let 
Lady  Trent  tell  him. 

Perhaps  Julia  foresaw  the  unhappy  result  of  the 
introduction  of  so  startling  a  bit  of  news  into  the  tete- 
a-tete  which  had  brought  about  this  happy  denouement — 
this  blissful  state  of  soulful  love,  which  now  threatened 
destruction  of  Maestro  Novara's  hopes  for  the  future 
of  his  art — that  future  when  his  American  singer,  as  he 
frequently  called  Julia,  would  startle  the  world  in  ful- 
fillment of  his  prophecy — his  prophecy,  when  he  had  read 
the  musical  signs  which  foretold  the  appearance  of  the 
greatest  lyric  soprano  the  world  had  ever  had. 

To  Alverstone,  sitting  across  from  her  and  looking 
intently  into  her  face,  she  was  lovelier  than  he  had  yet 
seen  her.  She  wore  the  same  soft,  white  dress;  the 
same  kind  of  rose,  as  sole  ornament  in  the  spun  gold 
hair,  nestled  as  artistically  as  on  the  evening  at  the 
Trent  soiree.  But  her  beauty  had  changed.  Her  eyes 
were  not  the  same  as  on  that  evening,  for  they  regarded 

388 


AN   AMERICAN    SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

him  with  a  far  different  light.  And  it  was  love — true 
love — for  him,  which  lit  them  and  which  gave  them  the 
beauteousness  that  filled  his  soul  to  the  uttermost  with 
trust,  with  peace,  with  joy  unspeakable  . 

At  last  Alverstone  spoke :  "Julia,  you  love  me ;  I  know 
you  do,  and  that,  too  fondly  to  be  happy  without  me  in 
your  life.  We  love  each  other  equally  well — this  I  know 
and  this  you  know — for  we  are  sincere  of  purpose  in 
life,  and  neither  of  us  would  think  of  trifling  for  the 
sake  of  an  unworthy  notion — a  flirtation.  Did  you  feel 
the  slightest  indifference  for  me  I  would  not  urge  my 
suit,  but  you  do  not.  On  the  contrary,  I  know  you  can 
never  be  truly  happy  without  me  in  your  life.  You  do 
love  me,  and  the  lover  can  never  forget  the  one  truly 
loved — never,  Julia;  it  is  impossible  to  forget — there  is 
no  refuge  from  this  but  in  full  requitment.  May  I  hope 
for  your  reply  in  the  affirmative?" 

While  speaking  he  had  been  holding  a  hand  in  each 
of  his,  and  now  he  clasped  them,  palms  together,  within 
the  clasp  of  his  own,  and  in  this  devotional  clasp  he 
placed  the  four  hands  over  his  heart,  saying  "As  our 
hands  have  joined,  let  us  join  our  hearts." 

"I  am  thine,  always,"  said  Julia,  in  a  quiet,  steady, 
sincere  and  tender  voice,  and  with  not  a  shade  of  regret 
vibrating  it.  "I  give  up  my  cherished  career  as  a  singer, 
and  with  not  a  regret.  I  am  glad,  happy,  proud  to  be- 
come the  bride  of  Hampton  Alverstone." 

Then  he  bowed  his  head  beside  the  four  hands,  still 
tightly  clasped  above  his  heart — his  heart,  now  attuned 
to  heaven's  sweetest  musical  theme,  and  which  thrilled 
his  soul  with  a  symphony,  the  divinest  ever  inspired— 
The  Symphony  of  Love — for  love  has  its  adagio,  its  al- 
legro, its  andante,  its  scherzo,  its  trio  and  its  finale. 

He  was  willing  to  have  suffered  all  this  anguish — all 
this  torment,  since  he  had  abruptly  turned  his  horse  at 

389 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER   IN   PARIS. 

the  end  of  the  street  where  he  had  seen  Julia  and  Trent 
together  in  front  of  Signer  Novara's,  to  have  saved  this 
life,  so  precious  to  him.  It  had  been  a  mad  rage  of  jeau- 
ousy,  he  thought,  that  had  led  him  at  so  dark  an  hour  into 
that  unseemly  quarter;  that  had  made  him  turn  into  the 
cemetery,  where  he  had  heard  those  Apaches,  and  where 
he  had  learned  to  know  from  the  mouth  of  the  leader  the 
name  of  the  instigator  of  this  terrible  plot,  the  consum- 
mation of  whose  perpetration  he  himself  had  been  able 
to  foil.  But  this  noble  American  man  was  like  the  half 
of  the  world  which  is  ignorant  of  what  the  other  half 
is  doing,  ignorant  that  the  actions  of  one  half  the  world 
often  rules  the  destinies  of  the  other  half. 

When  Hampton  Alverstone  had  left  his  horse  at  the 
stables  and  had  started  to  walk  blindly — to  walk  without 
an  objective  point — there  knelt,  down  deep  in  a  dungeon, 
a  priest,  who  was  praying  in  an  agony  like  unto  that  of 
Gethsemane — praying  thus  intensely  and  thus  sufferingly, 
for  protecting  influence  to  keep  in  safety  the  unsuspect- 
ing one  against  whom,  at  that  time,  was  uplifted  the  hand 
of  an  Apache,  in  the  act  of  inflicting  the  death  stroke. 

Alverstone  did  not  know  that  his  Julia  was  an  heiress 
of  boundless  wealth,  for  the  resources  of  her  gold  mines 
were  limitless ;  nor  did  he  even  suspicion  that  she  was  a 
scion  of  one  of  the  most  powerful  and  most  ancient 
houses  of  England. 

He  thought  no  further  than  that  she  was  an  American 
girl,  through  whose  veins  coursed  honest,  earnest  and 
genteel  blood  of  America — America's  best. 

At  last  Cupid  was  conqueror,  and  the  Muse  was  weep- 
ing. 

Thus  they  sat  for  some  moments.  There  was  no 
thought  now — no  action — no  nothing,  that  was  tangible 
— no  state  that  was  capable  of  a  clear  description;  only 
that  something  which  eludes  expression — that  strange 

390 


AN   AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

phenomenon — for  it  is  made  in  heaven,  and  knows  no  out- 
ward form  nor  fashion ;  and  when  it  finds  its  true  affinity 
upon  earth,  each  knows  the  other — its  own,  which  is  the 
other's  soul,  sensitized  to  vibrate  to  that  other  soul  sent 
upon  earth  by  the  Maker  of  the  universe  to  be  the  only 
force,  in  all  the  wide,  wide  space  capable  of  sending  out 
the  message  to  which  only  that  other  can  respond. 

Such  loves  are  made  in  heaven.  All  marriages  result- 
ing from  other  loves  are  not  known  in  Paradise. 

At  last  Julia's  lips  parted,  and  a  gentle  gravity  rested 
where  the  smile  had  played  with  the  corners  of  her 
mouth.  Was  she  sad?  No,  she  was  fathoming  the 
depths  of  true  love,  upon  whose  all-satisfying,  peaceful 
current  her  little  boat  had  now  begun  its  course. 

Did  she  question  whether  this  was  true  love?  Ah, 
no ;  she  knew  that  this  was  true  love,  and  had  she  been  a 
philosopher  she  had  known  that  all  love  bearing  the 
stamp  of  genuine  is  as  sweet,  as  gentle,  as  pure,  as  insis- 
tent, as  everlasting  as  the  love  borne  a  child  by  the 
mother,  who  knows  herself  responsible  for  that  wee  bit 
of  humanity. 

They  sat  enrapt,  this  noble  pair,  in  that  blissful  state, 
in  which  to  remain  is  heaven.  Such  loves  have  been, 
such  loves  can  be,  and  such  loves  are  the  only  true  loves. 
All  else  termed  love  is  only  dross — animal  passion — the 
curse  of  the  world. 

True  love  engages  only  the  head  and  the  heart — the 
other  never  reaches  so  high  as  this. 

Hampton  Alverstone  was  a  manly  man  and  Julia 
Pembroke  was  a  womanly  woman,  and  as  this  is  the 
highest  development  of  man  and  of  woman,  they  were 
capable  only  of  the  highest  love — love  that,  like  their  im- 
mortal souls,  shall  take  on  immortality  when  all  that  is 
mortal  of  them  shall  have  have  passed  away. 


391 


L'ENVOI. 

Early  Tuesday  morning  a  fisherman,  sitting  on  the 
banks  of  the  Seine,  saw  among  the  bushes  at  the  side  of 
the  Avenue  de  Neuilly,  just  where  the  bridge  crosses 
the  river,  the  body  of  a  woman.  He  made  his  way  with 
great  difficulty  into  the  tangled  overgrowth  among  which 
she  was  lying.  After  looking  at  her  until  he  had  satis- 
fied himself  that  she  was  dead,  he  telephoned  from  the 
nearest  point,  and  a  patrol  appeared  and  the  body  was 
soon  placed  upon  a  slab  in  the  morgue. 

A  young  woman,  going  through  the  morgue  for  the 
purpose  of  identifying  a  wayward  sister,  whom  she 
feared  might  be  among  the  unfortunates  lying  cold  in 
death  on  every  side,  came  upon  this  still  form.  She 
threw  herself  in  frantic  grief  upon  the  body,  when,  to 
the  horror  of  those  around,  two  large,  black,  languorous 

eyes  opened,  and  a  voice  said:  "Do  —  not  —  kill  —  me 
I" 

Then  the  eyes  closed  again  and  the  imploration  ceased. 
After  questioning  by  the  attendants,  and  a  closer  exam- 
ination by  the  young  searcher,  it  was  known  that  this 
was  not  the  lost  sister,  and  the  reviving  woman  was  re- 
moved to  the  hospital,  where  the  attending  physician  and 
surgeon  pronounced  her  hours  numbered,  for.  though 
the  patient  had  regained  consciousness  and  could  speak 
connectedly,  the  knife  wounds  were  very  deep  and  be- 
yond the  surgeon's  skill  and  Nature's  balm. 

When  told  the  result  of  the  examination  made  upon 
her  wounds,  she  called  for  a  priest,  and  then  begged  the 
Sisters  of  Charity  to  kneel  and  pray  for  her.  She  con- 
fessed that  she  was  not  a  Roman  Catholic,  but  a  Catholic 

392 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

of  the  Greek  persuasion,  and  this  only  that  she  might 
be  in  harmony  with  the  religious  views  of  her  late  hus- 
band— the  financier  Nitolsk,  of  Calcutta,  India;  that  she 
had  loved  a  young  American — Hampton  Alverstone  by 
name — but  he  had  not  loved  her  in  return,  for  he  had 
loved  an  American  singer,  Julia  Pembroke,  instead;  that 
she  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  this  same  American 
singer  and  had  pushed  a  loving  interest  upon  her,  which 
was  all  pretense,  and  only  entered  into  for  the  purpose 
of  easily  accomplishing  her  destruction;  that  this  she 
had  attempted  by  means  of  a  sleeping  potion,  which  she 
had  meant  to  give  her  at  a  reveillon  on  Christmas  eve, 
but  by  an  oversight  her  own  child  had  gotten  it,  and 
would  have  slept  himself  to  death  were  it  not  for  the 
efforts  of  Alia  Dekkah,  the  chemist,  who  had  furnished 
her  the  potion ;  that  this  same  chemist  had  aided  her  in 
a  second  attempt  at  destruction  of  the  young  singer,  by 
dusting  a  very  deadly  Oriental  poison  into  the  centers 
and  among  the  petals  of  a  dozen  American  Beauty  roses, 
which,  afterwards,  she  herself  had  taken  into  the  apart- 
ment of  the  young  woman,  when  she  was  attending  Mid- 
night Mass;  that  this  attempt  also  proving  unsuccessful, 
she  determined  to  rid  her  world  of  this  Julia  Pembrqke 
by  means  of  the  Apaches,  who,  she  was  certain,  would  not 
fail  her  in  this  deadly  purpose ;  that  she  had  met  them 
in  Montmartre  Cemetery,  and  there  had  given  them  half 
the  sum  which,  in  the  letter,  she  had  promised  if  they 
would  take  this  Julia  Pembroke  to  the  Bois  and  be  sure 
she  never  left  it  alive ;  that  on  Monday,  when  she  had 
felt  freedom  from  the  galling  yoke  of  jealousy,  she  had 
seen  her  riding  with  the  Trents,  and  she  was  happy,  with 
not  a  shade  of  pain  or  sorrow  upon  her  face ;  that  she 
had  not  gone  to  the  place  of  rendezvous,  where  she  was 
to  pay  the  other  half  of  the  money  due  the  Apaches, 
until  they  had  sent  a  letter,  threatening  to  steal  her  little 

393 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

son,  and,  after  putting  out  his  eyes,  return  him  to  her; 
that  when  she  had  gone  to  the  rendezvous — the  bridge 
over  the  Seine,  near  the  spot  where  they  had  told  her 
she  had  been  found — she  urged  the  chief  to  make  another 
attempt,  but  he  would  not  concede,  and  instead  had  cursed 
her  and  stabbed  her  and  pushed  her  down  the  bank,  to- 
ward the  river,  saying,  hissingly,  that  he  never  worked 
for  any  one  who  argued  the  price. 

She  had  been  stabbed  by  one  of  those  parasites  of 
Paris — its  beggars  by  day,  its  robbers  by  night — the 
growth  of  a  world's  sin — nurtured  within  the  confines 
of  a  great  city — the  gamin  of  yesterday,  to-day  grown, 
becomes  the  Apache  of  to-morrow. 

When  asked  if  she  would  see  her  child,  she  objected, 
adding  that  it  was  her  dying  request  he  should  never 
know  of  his  mother's  wicked  life.  She  gave  the  address 
of  her  home — a  number  on  Rue  Caumartin — and  wished 
them  carefully,  gently,  tenderly  to  tell  her  child  Adino 
nothing  but  that  his  mother  had  been  stabbed  by  some 
one  on  the  street,  and  that  she  had  died  in  the  hospital, 
where  she  had  been  taken. 

The  priest,  seeing  an  increased  pallor  come  out  upon 
her  face,  raised  his  right  hand  above  her  head  in  the  act 
of  performing  the  ceremony  for  the  dying,  when  Mad- 
ame Nitolsk,  frenzied  with  terror,  raised  herself  in  the 
bed  and  seized  his  arm,  shrieking :  "Save  me !  save  me ! 
Oh,  my  God !  save  me !  save  me !  I  am  dying !  I  am  so 
wicked!  I  see  no  heaven!  Where  is  it!  Hell  is  around 
me!  Ha,  I  hear  the  demons  laughing  in  the  red  fire — 
Satan  is  there  too — he  stands  alone — he  is  in  blue 
flame — he  beckons  me — he  comes  toward  me — he 
stretches  out  his  claws — Ugh !  he  will  catch  me — he  will 
draw  me  down — down  there — down  to  everlasting  tor- 
ment. H — H — H — save  me — save  me — I  am  lost — I  am 

394 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

with  God's  accursed — the  devils  of  hell  clutch  me — I  am 
lost— my  soul—.   Save !  Oh  God !— Oh  God !— Oh  !"— 

And  gasping  frightfully,  Madame  Nitolsk  fell  back 
upon  the  pillows,  and  the  Sisters  of  Charity — goddesses 
of  Mercy — and  the  priest — holy  man  of  God — bowed  low, 
as  they  knelt  in  a  prayer  of  sincerest  sympathy  and  con- 
scientious devotionality,  to  await  the  passing  of  the  soul 
of  Madame  Nitolsk  from  out  the  body,  which  she  had 
failed  to  govern  aright. 


On  a  little  street  which  adjoins  an  avenue  at  one  end 
and  a  boulevard  at  the  other,  across  from  two  lamp- 
posts, which  oast  a  regular  light  on  the  buildings  across 
the  street,  is  a  Protestant  church. 

New  Year's  eve,  just  a  little  before  eight  o'clock, 
one  automobile,,  number  12367,  and  the  landau  of  the 
Trents  were  stopped  before  this  church.  One  of  the 
church  doors  was  partly  opened,  and  the  light  from  with- 
in made  a  narrow  path  across  the  sidewalk  outside. 
It  was  very  cold,  and  the  dull-black  horses  champed  rest- 
lessly at  their  bits.  The  moon,  high  up,  shone  clear 
and  uncircled.  The  stars  blinked  on,  as  if  the  nipping 
air  picked  at  their  wicks  each  second. 

Every  now  and  then  a  passer,  seeing  the  light,  looked 
in  at  the  door,  and  then  at  the  carriage  -and  automobile. 

395 


AN  AMERICAN   SINGER  IN   PARIS. 

He  understood  it  was  a  marriage,  but,  seeing  no  one, 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  on.  It  had  been  snow- 
ing, and  from  the  end  of  the  street  near  the  Boulevard 
Haussmann  came  the  clink  of  shovels,  as  they  gathered 
up  the  snow,  and  from  the  end  of  the  street  which  ad- 
joins the  Avenue  Champs  Ely sees  sounded  the  dull  echo 
of  a  main  way  of  a  great  city. 

It  was  the  marriage  of  Julia  Pembroke  to  Hampton 
Alverstone. 


396 


UC  SOUTHERN  RE 


A     000053216     8 


